EPITAPH. THOUGH short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees, And, since this world was not the world for thee, 5 10 O! mark'd from birth, and nurtured for the skies! In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise! As sainted martyrs, patient to endure! Simple as unwean'd infancy and pure! Pure from all stain! (save that of human clay, CANNING. 15 20 FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 282 FROM " THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 10 To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 15 O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 20 That knits me to thy rugged strand! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, 25 Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; Ev'n in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, SCOTT. 30 35 FLODDEN FIELD. -THOUGH deep the evening fell, 5 And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride! The English shafts in volleys hail'd, 20 In headlong charge their horse assail'd; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their King. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 25 Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good 30 Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, No thought was there of dastard flight; Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 35 Till utter darkness closed her wing As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Then did their loss his foemen know, 40 Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low, 45 They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, 50 Disorder'd, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, 55 60 SCOTT. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. BUT scarce again his horn he wound, 5 10 She thought to catch the distant strain. And eye and ear attentive bent, 20 Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood she seem'd to stand, And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 25 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, What though the sun, with ardent frown, |