Redeem my pennon, charge again! That shout shall ne'er be heard again!- Tell him his squadrons up to bring.— Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring To slake my dying thirst!" O Woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quiv'ring aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, “Drink. weary . pilgrim . drink. and . pray . Who . built . this . cross . and . well.” A Monk supporting Marmion's head; To shrive the dying, bless the dead. And strove to staunch, the gushing wound : 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!” So the notes rung; "Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand Shake not the dying sinner's sand !— He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted "Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion. FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.' 268. ELLEN-THE LADY OF THE LAKE. But scarce again his horn he wound, With head upraised, and look intent, In listening mood she seem'd to stand, And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace What though the sun, with ardent frown, To measured mood had train'd her pace A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew; What though upon her speech there hung The listener held his breath to hear! A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring And seldom o'er a breast so fair Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, 269. PATERNAL AFFECTION. Some feelings are to mortals given, From passion's dross refined and clear, 270. FROM THE ANTIQUARY.' SUNSET AND THE APPROACH OF A STORM. As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced along, enjoying the pleasant 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 splendour gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of vapours, 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 colouring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach, the tide rippled onwards in waves of sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the sand. With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or perhaps 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 evincing their existence by here and there a peak entirely bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those that were partially covered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and ship-masters. The crags which rose between the beach and the mainland, to the height of two or three hundred feet, afforded in their crevices shelter for unnumbered sea-fowl, in situations seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now winging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became almost totally obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to arise; but its wild and moaning sound was heard for some time, and its effects became visible on the bosom of the sea, before the gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder. 271. FROM THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.' DESCRIPTION OF RICHMOND. The carriage rolled rapidly onwards through fertile meadows, ornamented with splendid old oaks, and catching occasionally a glance of the majestic mirror of a broad and placid river. After nassing through a pleasant village, the equipage stopped on a com |