To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

W. Wordsworth.

LXXI.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had

[none;

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar !

He stayed not for brake and he stopt not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented; the gallant came late ;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,

'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !'
The bride kissed the goblet, the Knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,—
'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace :

While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'T were better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !'

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, [near ;
When they reached the hall door; and the charger stood
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!' cried young

Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea;
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar !

W. Scott.

LXXII.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF

HIS FATHERS.

T is the spot I came to seek,—

My fathers' ancient burial-place

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot—I know it well—

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side;

I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide,-
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,

Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariots o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

K

130 An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,

Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest ;

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth—
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-ay-like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day,—

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;

The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;

And torrents dashed and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more
The springs are silent in the sun;

The rivers, by the blackened shore,

With lessening current run;

The realm our tribes are crushed to get
May be a barren desert yet.

W. C. Bryant.

LXXIII.

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

O horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! the clarion's note

is high;

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum

makes reply:

Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our

ears.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! White Guy is at the

door,

And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.