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Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined. Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.
The enemy in shriller sounds returned
The horsemen lowered their spears, the infantry
Deliberately with slow and steady step (hissed,
Conflicting: shield struck shield, and sword and
Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,
And many a spirit from its mortal hold
Of Julian's army in that hour support
Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
Alphonso through the host of infidels
There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
Of his recovered lord, Orelio plunged
The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,
Replete with power he is, and terrible,
Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes
They said, this is no human foe!-Nor less
And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, Then said, if I have done ye service here,
With what command and knightly ease he sits Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!
The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis
His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
Bestrode with such command and majesty
Is he who in that garb of peace affronts
Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!
Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some saint
THE HOLLY TREE.
O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree? Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist
eye that contemplates it well perceives The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel
Its glossy leaves With stern regard of joy, the African
Order'd by an intelligence so wise,
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round From man to man, and rank to rank it past,
Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
It matters not,
Vengeance was the word;
AF 0 Pa WE
I love to view these things with curious eyes, Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy And moralize:
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, = And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore Can emblems see
Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, One which may profit in the after-time.
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal loves. Reserved and rude,
Upon his natal day the acorn here Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak, Like the bigh leaves upon the Holly Tree.
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak = All vain asperities I day by day
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's faine Would wear away,
Endureth in his own immortal works. = Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.
This to a mother's sacred memory And as when all the summer trees are seen
Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year So bright and green,
Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display Of that dear voice which sooth'd his infancy: Less bright than they;
And after many a fight against the Moor But when the bare and wintry woods we see, And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?
Which he had seen covering the boundless plain
Even to the utmost limits where the eye So serious should my youth appear among
Could pierce the far horizon,-his first thought The thoughtless throng,
In safety was of her, who when she heard
The tale of that day's danger, would retire
And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven
In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour As the green winter of the Holly Tree.
Of his return, long-look'd for, came at length,
Vain hope that puts its trust in human life!
For ere he came the number of her days
How unendurable its weight, if they
Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Often reclined; watching the silent flow
Breaking the highway stones,—and 'tis a task Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours! Along its verdant course,-till all around
Why yes! for one with such a weight of years A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance,
Upon his back—I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago
The beautifying of this mansion here,
Came to the estate.
Stranger. O reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Why then you have outlasted Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived All his improvements, for you see they're making With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, Great alterations here.
IN A FOREST.
THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.
FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST,
And love the good old fashions; we don't find Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd
Come-come! all is not wrong; Those old dark windows
They've set about it In right good earnest. All the front is gone ; Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road Round to the door. There were some yew trees too Stood in the court
Aye, Master! fine old trees ! My grandfather could just remember back When they were planted there. It was my task To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me; All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall! My poor old Lady many a time would come And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs And your pert poplar trees;-I could as soon Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
Stranger. But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now; A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road Round for the carriage-now it suits my taste. I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh ; And then there's some variety about it. In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower, And the laburnum with its golden strings Waving in the wind: and when the autumn comes The bright red berries of the mountain-ashi, With pines enough in winter to look green, And show that something lives. Sure this is better Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look All the year round like winter, and for ever Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs Wither'd and bare !
Ah! so the new Squire thinks,
No, sir, not I.
They're demolish'd too, As if he could not see through casement glass!
red-breasts, that so regular Came to my Lady for her morning crums, Won't know the window now!
Nay they were small, And then so darken'd round with jessamine, Harbouring the vermin ;-yet I could have wish'd That jessamine had been saved, which canopied And bower'd and lined the porch.
It did one good To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom. There was a sweet briar too that grew beside; My Lady loved at evening to sit there And knit; and her old dog lay at her ieet And slept in the sun; 'twas an old far urite dog,She did not love him less that he wa 'd And feeble, and he always had a pla. By the fire-side; and when he died e She made me dig a grave in the gardt
him. Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day 'Twas for the poor when to her grave 61
Stranger. They lost a friend then ?
You're a snger here.
It don't look well.,
These alterations, sir! I'm an old man,
All that my lady lovedl her favourite walk That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
Have many years in store,--but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant Mayhap they mayn't, sir;—for all that
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste I like what I've been used to. I remember
His beer, old friendl and see if your old lady All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
Ere broach'd a better cask. You did not know me, 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
But we're acquainted now. "Twould not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within,
That is not changed, my friend! you'll always find
The same old bounty and old welcome there.
MARGARET AT HER FATHER'S BIER.
The And I
0.0 Buto The
M Thes To d е
THE LAST MINSTREL. The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry. For, well-a-day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, lle poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorned and poor, He begged his bread from door to door; And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a king had loved to hear. He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eyeNo humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had oft rolled back the side of war, But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor. The Duchess marked his weary pace, His timid mien, and reverend face, And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Hnd wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
The humble boon was soon obtain'd; The aged Minstrel audience gained. But, when he reached the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brainIle tried to tune his harp in vain. The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony. And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain, He never thought to sing again. It was not framed for village churls, But for high dames and mighty earls; He had played it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in Holyrood; And much he wished, yet feared, to try, The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled; And lightened up his faded eye, With all a poet's ecstacy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along : The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost; Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied ; And, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.
When kindness had his wants supplied,
Can piety the discord heal,
Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot real,