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there, I know not well-I never knew:-first, came the loss of light and air, and then, of darkness too; I had no thought, no feelingnone:-among the stones I stood a stone.

A light broke in upon my brain-it was the carol of a bird; it ceased-and then it came again-the sweetest song ear ever heard; and mine was thankful, till my eyes ran over with the glad surprise; and they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery: but then, by dull degrees, came back my senses to their wonted track; I saw the dungeon walls and floor close slowly round me as before-I saw the glimmer of the sun creeping as it before had done:-but through the crevice where it came, that bird was perched!-as fond and tame, and tamer than upon the tree; a lovely bird with azure wings, and song that said a thousand things, and seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: it seemed like me to want a mate, but was not half so desolate; and it was come to love me, when none lived to love me so again; and cheering from my dungeon's brink, had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, or broke its cage to perch on mine; but knowing well captivity. sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in winged guise, a visitant from Paradise; for-heaven forgive that thought! the while which made me both to weep and smile-I sometimes deemed that it might be my brother's soul come down to me: But then at last away it flew, and then 'twas mortal-well I knew! For he would never thus have flown, and left me twice so doubly lone: -lone, as the corse within its shroud; lone, as a solitary cloud; a single cloud on a sunny day, while all the rest of heaven is clear;—a frown upon the atmosphere, that has no business to appear when skies are blue and earth is gay.

LXXX.-BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD AND DEATH OF MARMION.Scott.

BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested stili with Lady Clare upon the hill; on which (for far the day was spent), the western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard-its meaning knew, could plain their distant comrades view. *

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But, lo straight up the hill there rode two horsemen, drenched with gore; and in their arms, a helpless load, a wounded Knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; his arms were smeared with blood and sand; dragged from among the horses' feet, with dinted shield, and helmet beat- the falcon-crest and plumage, gone- -can that be haughty Marmion? When, doffed his casques, he felt free air, around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:-"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? Redeem my pennon,-charge again! Cry-Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain!-last of my race, on battle-plain that shout shall ne'er be heard again!-Yet my last thought is England's:-fly-to Dacre bear my signet-ring, tell him his squadrons up to bring; FitzEustace, to Lord Surrey hie! Tunstall lies dead upon the field; his life-blood stains the spotless shield: Edmund is down-my life is reft!-the Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, with Chester charge, and Lancashire, full upon Scotland's cen

tral host, or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets fly! leave Marmion here alone to die."

They parted-and alone he lay: Clare drew her from the sight away, till pain wrung forth a lowly moan; and half he murmured,"Is there none, of all my halls have nursed, page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring of blessed water, from the spring, to slake my dying thirst ?"

O woman! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please, and variable as the shade by the light quivering aspen made; when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!-Scarce were the piteous accents said, when, with the Baron's casque, the maid to the nigh streamlet ran: forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears: the plaintive voice alone she hears, sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, but in abhorrence backward drew; for, oozing from the mountain-side, where raged the war, a dark red tide was curdling in the streamlet blue! Where shall she turn?-Behold her mark a little fountain cell, where water, clear as diamond spark, in a stone basin fell. She filled the helm, and back she hied, and, with surprise and joy, espied a Monk, supporting Marmion's head; a pious man, whom duty brought to dubious verge of battle fought, to shrive the dying, bless the dead.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, and as she stooped his brow to lave-"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose, "Talk not to me of shrift or prayer, I must redress her woes! Short space, few words, are mine to spare!-Forgive!-and listen, gentle Clare!" "Alas!" she said, the while; "Oh, think of your immortal weal! in vain for Constance is your zeal—she died at Holy Isle!" Lord Marmion started from the ground, as light as though he felt no wound; though in the action burst the tide in torrents from his wounded side! "Then it was

truth!" he said: "I knew that the dark presage must be true! I would the Fiend, to whom belongs the vengeance due to all her wrongs, would spare me but a day! for, wasting fire, and dying groan, and priests slain on the altar-stone, might bribe him for delay. It may not be this dizzy trance!-Curse on yon base marauder's lance! and doubly curs'd my failing brand! a sinful heart makes feeble hand!" Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, supported by the trembling Monk.

notes rung.

With fruitless labour Clara bound, and strove to stanch the gushing wound: the Monk, with unavailing cares, exhausted all the Church's prayers: 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 "Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, shake not the dying sinner's sand! Oh! look, my son, upon yon sign of the Redeemer's grace divine! Oh! think on faith and bliss!-By many a death-bed I have been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never aught like this!"The war, that for a space did fail, now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale, and-" Stanley!" was the cry-a light on Marmion's visage spread, and fired his glazing eye; with dying hand, above his head he shook the fragment of his blade, and shouted " Victory!-Charge! Chester, charge! On!-Stanley! on-!" were the last words of Marmion."

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LXXXI.—MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.-Southey. WHO is she-the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes seem heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; she never complains, but her silence implies the composure of settled distress. No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek, cold and hunger awake not her care; through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak on her poor withered bosom, half bare; and her cheek has the deadly, pale hue of despair. Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day), poor Mary the Maniac hath been; the traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, no damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, as Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, as she welcomed them in with a smile; her heart was a stranger to childish affright; and Mary would walk by the Abbey at night, when the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, and she hoped to be happy for life; but Richard was idle and worthless, and they who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say, that she was too good for his wife.

"Twas in autumn; and stormy and dark was the night, and fast were the windows and door; two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright; and smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, they listened to hear the wind roar. ""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, to hear the wind whistle without." "What a night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied; "methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, who should wander the ruins about. I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear the hoarse ivy shake over my head; and could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear-for this wind might awaken the dead!" "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "that Mary will venture there now." "Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, and faint if she saw a white cow." "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" his companion exclaimed with a smile; "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, and earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough from the elder that grows in the aisle."

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With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, and her to the Abbey she bent; the night it was gloomy, the wind it was high, and, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, she shivered with cold as she went. O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; through the gateway she entered-she felt not afraid; yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast howled dismally round the old pile; over weed-covered fragments, still fearless, she passed, and arrived at the innermost ruin at last where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, and hastily gathered the bough-when the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear!—she paused and she listened, all eager to hear-and her heart panted fearfully now!-The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, she listened;-nought else could she hear. The wind ceased;-her heart sank in her bosom with dread, for she heard in the ruins, distinctly, the tread of footsteps approaching her near! Behind a wide

column, half breathless with fear, she crept, to conceal herself there; that instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, and she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, and between them a corpse did they bear. Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood curdle cold! Again the rough wind hurried by-it blew off the hat of the one, and behold! even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled; she fell-and

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expected to die! 'Stay!-the hat!" he exclaims,-"Nay, come on, and fast hide the dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side-she seizes the hat-fear her courage supplied, and fast through the Abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, she cast her eyes horribly round; her limbs could support their faint burden no more, but exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor, unable to utter a sound. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, for a moment the hat met her view; her eyes from that object convulsively start, for, alas! what cold horror thrilled through her heart, when the name of her Richard she knew!

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by, his gibbet is now to be seen; not far from the road it engages the eye: the traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn!

LXXXII.—THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-Mrs. Southey. TREAD Softly-bow the head-in reverent silence bow;-no passing bell doth toll, yet an immortal soul is passing now. Stranger! however great, with lowly reverence bow: there's one in that poor shed -one by that paltry bed-greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, lo! Death doth keep his state! Enter-no crowds attend; enter—no guards defend this palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, no smiling courtiers tread; one silent woman stands, lifting, with meagre hands, a dying head. No mingling voices sound-an infant wail alone; a sob suppressed-again that short deep gasp, and then the parting groan! Oh! change-oh, wondrous change! burst are the prison bars. This moment there, so low, so agonised;-and now beyond the stars! Oh! change—stupendous change! there lies the soulless clod; the sun eternal breaks-the new immortal wakeswakes with his God!

LXXXIII. ODE TO ELOQUENCE.-Carey.

HEARD ye those loud-contending waves, that shook Cecropia's pillared state? Saw ye the mighty from their graves look up, and tremble at her fate? Who shall calm the angry storm? who the mighty task perform, and bid the raging tumult cease ?-See, the son of Hermes rise, with syren tongue and speaking eyes, hush the noise, and soothe to peace! See the olive-branches waving o'er Illissus' winding stream; their lovely limbs the Naiads laving the Muses smiling by, supreme! See the nymphs and swains advancing, to harmonious measures dancing: grateful Io Pæans rise to thee, O Power! who canst inspire soothing words-or words of fire, and shook'st thy plumes in Attic skies!

Lo! from the regions of the north, the reddening storm of battle pours-rolls along the trembling earth-fastens on the Olynthian towers. "Where rests the sword? where sleep the brave? Awake!

Cecropia's ally save from the fury of the blast: burst the storm on Phocis' walls! Rise! or Greece for ever falls; up, or Freedom breathes her last!"-The jarring states, obsequious now, view the Patriot's hand on high; thunder gathering on his brow, lightning flashing from his eye! Borne by the tide of words along, one voice, one mind, inspire the throng!" To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry; 66 grasp the shield, and draw the sword; lead us to Philippi's lord, let us conquer him, or die!"

Ah, Eloquence! thou wast undone, wast from thy native country driven, when Tyranny eclipsed the sun, and blotted out the stars of heaven! When Liberty from Greece withdrew, and o'er the Adriatic flew to where the Tiber pours his urn-she struck the rude Tarpeian rock; sparks were kindled by the shock-again thy fires began to burn. Now, shining forth, thou mad'st compliant the Conscript Fathers to thy charms; roused the world-bestriding giant, sinking fast in Slavery's arms! I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, pouring the persuasive strain, giving vast conceptions birth: hark! I hear thy thunder's sound shake the Forum round and round-shake the pillars of the earth!

First-born of Liberty divine! put on Religion's bright array; speak! and the starless grave shall shine the portal of eternal day! Rise! kindling with the orient beam, let Calvary's hill inspire the theme; unfold the garments rolled in blood! Oh, touch the soultouch all her chords with all the omnipotence of words, and point the way to Heaven-to God!

LXXXIV. GINEVRA.-Rogers.

SHE was an only child-her name Ginevra; the joy, the pride of an indulgent sire; and in her fifteenth year became a bride, marrying an only son, Francesco Doria-her playmate from her birth, and her first love. She was all gentleness, all gaiety, her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, the nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; and, in the lustre of her youth, she gave her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but, at the nuptial feast, when all sat down, the bride was wanting there, nor was she to be found! Her father cried, ""Tis but to make a trial of our love!" and filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, and soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, laughing, and looking back, and flying still-her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found; nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, but that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen an old man wandering as in quest of something, something he could not find-he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile silent and tenantless-then went to strangers...

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot; when, on an idle day,a day of search 'mid the old lumber in the gallery,-that mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said by one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" "Twas done as soon as said; but, on the way, it burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton, with here and there a nearl, an emerald-stone, a golden clasp, clasp

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