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Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine
My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee.” He cross'd the threshold-and a clang Of angry steel that instant rang. To his bold brow his spirit rush'd, But soon for vain alarm he blush’d, When on the floor he saw display'd Cause of the din, a naked blade Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless flung Upon a stag's huge antlers swung; For all around, the walls to grace, Hung trophies of the fight or chase : A target there, a bugle here, A battle-axe, a hunting spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. Here grins the wolf as when he died, And there the wild-cat's brindled hide The frontlet of the elk adorns, Or mantles o'er the bison's horns; Pennons and flags, defaced and stain'd, That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite, In rude and uncouth tapestry all, To garnish forth the sylvan hall. SCOTT.
“SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking: Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
“ 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 day-break 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-steeds' neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
“Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den ;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son,
On his imperial throne.
The lovely Thaïs, by his side,
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
Timotheus, placed on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew
the slain ! The master saw the madness rise ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
He chose a mournful muse,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen from his high estate,
Deserted at his utmost need
With not a friend to close his eyes.
The various turns of fate below;
And tears began to flow.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Honour, but an empty bubble ;
Fighting still, and still destroying, If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause : So love was crown'd; but music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again;
Now strike the golden lyre again !
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awaken'd from the dead;
See the furies arise !
How they hiss in their hair,
Behold a ghastly band,