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"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name,
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed?

At first in heart it liked me ill,

When the king praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line:
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood..
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried :
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
I warrant him a warrior tried.".
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle's halls.

258. THE Death of MaRMION.

With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand:
His arms were smeared with blood and sand:
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!.
Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said "By St. George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,

And see the deep cut on his head!

Good night to Marmion."

"Unnurtured Blount!-thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,” said Eustace, “peace!”

When doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:-

"Where's Harry Blount! Fitz-Eustace where ?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!

Redeem my pennon, charge again!

Cry 'Marmion to the rescue!' - Vain!

Last of my race, on battle plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!

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Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water, from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!"

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-

Scarce were the piteous accents said,

When, with the Baron's casque, the maid,

To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the rountain wide,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue.

Where shall she turn?-behold her mark

A little fountain-cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,

"Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and, prag. For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil . Grey . Who. built. this. cross. and. well.”

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With fruitless labor, Clara bound,

And strove to stanch, the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,

A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying )"

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A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted, "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!*
Were the last words of Marmion.



But scarce again his horn he wound,
We lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an agéd oak

That slanted from the islet rock.
A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay.

With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,

In listening mood she seemed to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace

Of finer form, or lovelier face!

What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown --What though no rule of courtly grace

To measured mood had trained her pace -

A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread :

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue —
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. And seldom was a snood amid

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;

And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confessed
The guileless movements of her breas:
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion poured a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth
The indignant spirit of the North.

One only passion unrevealed

With maiden pride the maid concealed,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;

O need I tell that passion's name!


Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!


261. SUNSET AND THE Approach of a Storm.

As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced along, enjoying the pleas. ant footing afforded by the cool moist hard sand, Miss Wardour could not help observing, that the last tide had risen considerably above the usual water-mark. Sir Arthur made the same observation, but without its occurring to either of them to be alarmed at the circumstance. The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters around a sinking empire and falling monarch. Still, however, his dying splendor gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of vapors, forming out of their unsubstantial gloom, the show of pyramids and towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous canopy, lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid coloring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach the tide rippled onwards in waves of sparkling silver, that im::ceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the sand.

With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or perhape on some more agitating topic, Miss Wardour advanced in silence by her father's side, whose recently offended dignity did not stoop to open any conversation. Following the windings of the beach, they passed one projecting point or headland of rock after another, and now found themselves under a huge and continued extent of the precipices by which that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long projecting reefs of rock, extending under water, and only evin

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