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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.

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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, si peace!”
When doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around ’gan Marmion wildly stare:-
"Where's Harry Blount! Fitz-Eustace when i
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 againl.

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Yet my last thought is England's : – ily,

To Dacre bear my signet-ring;

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie:

Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield
Edmund is down :- my life is reft; -
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, -
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost. -
Must I bid twice?- hence, varlets ! ily!
Leave Marmion here alone — to die.”
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, - 66 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 irountain 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-spara,

In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn leiters say, " Drink . wearg · pilgrim , drink . and prag for.the. kind . soul . of. Sybil . Grey.

Who . built . this . cross . and. buell."

She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave.

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 i*

So the notes rung;
“ Avoid thee, Fiend! — with cruel hand
Shake not the dying sinner's sand! -
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss ! -
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,

And – STANLEY! was the cry;-
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
Hc shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted, “Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, ont
Were the last words of Marmion.


But scarce again his horn he wound,
W:::1 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.

Wita nead upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks Aung 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 dews 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 bicar: 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!

FROM “THE ANTIQUARY.” 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 heach the tide rippled onwards in waves of sparkling silver, im. p::ceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the sand.

With a mind employed in adıniration of the romantic scene, or perlaps 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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