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There might be seen of shame the blush,
There anger's dark and fiercer flush,
While the perturbéd sleeper's hand
Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or brand.
Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh,
The tear in the half-opening eye,
The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd
That grief was busy in his breast;
Nor paused that mood-a sudden start
Impell'd the life-blood from the heart;
Features convulsed, and mutterings dread,
Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead:
That pang the painful slumber broke,
And Oswald, with a start, awoke.

4. DEATH OF OSWALD WYCLIFFE. The outmost crowd have heard a sound, Like horse's hoofs on harden'd ground: Nearer it came, and yet more near,— The very death's-men paused to hear. 'Tis in the church-yard now-the tread Hath waked the dwelling of the dead! Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, Return the tramp in varied tone. All eyes upon the gate-way hung, When through the gothic arch there sprung A horseman arm'd, at headlong speedSable his cloak, his plume, his steed. Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd, The vaults unwonted clang return'd !— One instant's glance around he threw, From saddle-bow his pistol drew : Grimly determined was his look! His charger with the spurs he strookAll scatter'd backward as he came, For all knew Bertram Risingham! Three bounds that noble courser gave; The first has reach'd the central nave, The second clear'd the chancel wide, The third--he was at Wycliffe's side.

Fail levell'd at the Baron's head,
Rung the report-the bullet sped-
And to his long account and last,
Without a groan dark Oswald past!
All was so quick, that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.
While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
But flounder'd on the pavement floor
The steel, and down the rider bore,
And bursting in the headlong sway,
The faithless saddle-girths gave way.
'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed,
And with the rein to raise the steed,
That from amazement's iron trance
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once.
Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ;
A score of pikes, with each a wound,
Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground:
But still his struggling force he rears,
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears
Thrice from assailants shook him free,
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee.
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length,
Despite his struggles and his strength,
He took a hundred mortal wounds,
As mute as fox 'mid mangling hounds;
And when he died, his parting groan
Had more of laughter than of moan!
-They gazed, as when a lion diés,
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes,
But bend their weapons on the slain,
Lest the grim king should rouse again !—
Then blow and insult some renew'd,
And from the trunk the head had hew'd,
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ;
A mantle o'er the corse he laid :-
"Fell as he was in act and mind,
He left no bolder heart behind:

2 G

Then give him, for a soldier meet,
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet."

5. VIRTUE IN ADVERSITY.

The minstrel waked his harp-three times
Arose the well-known martial chimes,
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.
"Vainly thou bidd'st, O noble maid,"
Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,
"Vainly thou bidd'st me wake the strain,
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand
Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd
I touch the chords of joy, but low
And mournful answer notes of woe;
And the proud march, which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing of the dead.

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone;
If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd,

Can thus its master's fate foretell,

Then welcome be the minstrel's knell !

But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh'd

The eve thy sainted mother died;

And such the sounds which, while I strove

To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth,

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And, disobedient to my call,

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall,

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.

Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe
My master's house must undergo,
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,
Brood in these accents of despair,
No future bard, sad harp! shall fling
Triumph or rapture from thy string;

One short, one final strain shall flow,
Fraught with unutterable woe,
Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie,
Thy master cast him down and die.”

Soothing she answer'd him, "Assuage,
Mine honour'd friend, the fears of age:
All melodies to thee are known,

That harp has rung, or pipe has blown,
In Lowland vale or Highland glen,
From Tweed to Spey-what marvel, then,
At times, unbidden notes should rise,
Confusedly bound in memory's ties,
Entangling, as they rush along,
The war-march with the funeral
song ?-
Small ground is now for boding fear;
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.
My sire, in native virtue great,
Resigning lordship, lands, and state,
Not then to fortune more resign'd,
Than yonder oak might give the wind:
The graceful foliage storms may reave,
The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me," she stoop'd, and, looking round,
Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground,
"For me, whose memory scarce conveys
An image of more splendid days,
This little flower, that loves the lea,
May well my simple emblem be;
It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose

That in the king's own garden grows ;
And when I place it in my hair,

Allan, a bard is bound to swear

He ne'er saw coronet so fair."

Then playfully the chaplet wild

She wreath'd in her dark locks, and smiled.

6. DECEIT.

O what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive i

7. THE ROSE AND HOPE.

The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
8. MELROSE ABBEY.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go, visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cool light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go but go alone the while—

Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair.

CCLXXVII. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

1772-1834.

1. GENEVIEVE.

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve .
In beauty's light you glide along :
Your eye is like the star of eve,

And sweet your voice, as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of woe.
When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,

Fair as the bosom of the swan,

That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!

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