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CHAPTER XXXVII.

MELROSE ABBEY,

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem fram'd of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

SIR W. SCOTT.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

R

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

CAMPBELL.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England-
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

Blessed homes of England,
How softly on their bowers,
Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn,

All other sounds in that still time

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

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And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.

THE END.

FELICIA HEMANS.

LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.

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