The Lady of the Lake: A Poem

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Daved Bogue, 1838

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Page 28 - No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
Page 29 - Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille.
Page 16 - And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form or lovelier face...
Page 19 - On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth ; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love or headlong ire.
Page 204 - tis silent all ! — Enchantress, fare thee well ! END OF CANTO SIXTH.
Page 11 - Where glistening streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue ; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream.
Page 141 - The wind's last breath had toss'd in air Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair; The next but swept a lone hill-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide: The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive, from targe and jack; The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green and cold grey stone.
Page 83 - ... the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,* Sage counsel in cumber Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain Thou art gone, and for ever ! XVII.
Page 110 - twas all for thy locks so bright, And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, That on the night of our luckless flight, Thy brother bold I slew. " Now must I teach to hew the beech...
Page 130 - Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu A clansman born, a kinsman true; Each word against his honor spoke, Demands of me avenging stroke ; Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, A mighty augury is laid. It rests with me to wind my horn, — Thou art with numbers overborne ; It rests with me, here, brand to brand, Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand : But...

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