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O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword he weapon
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all :
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in
war, “ Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?”— " I long wooed your daughter, my suit
denied ; “ Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide“And now am I come with this lost love of mine, “ To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 6. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far; “ That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”_ The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,“ Now tread we a measure !" said
Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bridemaidens whispered, “ 'Twere better by far “ To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“ She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran;
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
SIR W. SCOTT.
17.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
" And I'll give thee a silver pound,
“ To row us o'er the ferry.”-
“ Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
“ This dark and stormy water?”
“O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
" And this Lord Ullin's daughter.-“ And fast before her father's men
“ Three days we've fled together, « For should he find us in the glen,
“My blood would stain the heather.
“ His horsemen hard behind us ride;
“ Should they our steps discover,
“ Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
“ When they have slain her lover ?”.
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“ I'll go, my chief—I'm ready :-
“ It is not for your silver bright,
“ But for your winsome lady:
“ And, by my word! the bonny bird
“ In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
“ I'll row you o'er the ferry.”— By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.“Ohaste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather, “ I'll meet the raging of the skies,
“But not an angry father."The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.-
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore.
His wrath was changed to wailing. -
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover :-
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“ Come back! come back !” he cried in grief,
“ Across this stormy water: “ And I'll forgive your Highland chief.
“My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
18.--A PORTION OF GRAY'S BARD.
RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
To arms, cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand and poet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Hark how each giant oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, O king, their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more since Cambria's fatal day
"To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main,
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed,
Mountains ! ye mourn in vain.
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale;
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail,
The famished eagle screams and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries ! -
No more I weep. They do not sleep:
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land;
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
warp and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample scope and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait !
Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. GRAY.
19.-HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new-reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
and took 't away again.
and still he smiled and talked; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies