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But when he saw Alcaras down, he staid not on his
steed,— And when he saw Alcaras' lance was shivered as a reed, Away, without one word, the knight that instant cast his
own; And forth he drew his glittering sword, that as a sunbeam
shone, With one fierce blow he cleft the casque the Spaniard
proudly wore, And with the next struck off the arm on which the scarf
he bore ! Then thrice he kissed that well-won scarf-that scarf of
gold and blue, And raised his vizor as he knelt to her he found so true; Oh! dearly was that scarf beloved by Sir Eustace D'Ar
gencourt, But dearer far the prize he won in Isabel D'Etours !
H. G. B.
FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
They bid me sleep_they bid me pray,
They say my brain is warped and wrung-
I cannot pray in Highland tongue.
But were I now where Allan glides,
my native Devon's tides,
'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,
They bade me to the church repair;
And my true love would meet me there.
Sir Walter Scott.
By the Rev. Dr John Erskine on hearing an Officer swear.
Soldier ! so tender of thy prince's fame,
WRITTEN IN THE CASE OF A WATCH.
See, reader, here, in youth, or age, or prime,
THE POWER OF FAITH.
'Twas summer, and a Sabbath eve,
And balmy was the air,
yet the sight was fair,
Like waxen dolls that infants dress
Their little bodies were; A look of placid happiness
Did on each face appear.
And in a coffin short and wide
Their mother, as a lily pale,
Sat near them on a bed,
And many a tear she shed.
Why loves my flower, (the sweetest flower
That swells the golden breast of May,) Thrown rudely o'er the ruined tower
To waste her solitary day?
Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,
The grove, and genial garden call, Will she her fragrant soul exhale,
Unheeded on the lonely wall ?
· For never sure was beauty born
To lay in death's deserted shade : Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,
My banks for love and beauty made."
Thus pity waked the tender thought,
And by her sweet persuasion led, To seize the hermit flower I sought,
And bear her from her stony bed.
I sought—but sudden on my ear
A voice in hollow murmur broke,
The genius of the ruin spoke :
• From thee be far the ungentle deed,
The honours of the dead to spoil ; Or take the sole remaining meed,
The flower that crowns their former toil !
« Nor deem that flower the garden's foe,
Or fond to grace the barren shade, 'Tis nature tells her to bestow
Her honours on the lonely dead