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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.


They bid me sleep_they bid me pray,

They say my brain is warped and wrung-
I cannot sleep on Highland brae,

I cannot pray in Highland tongue.

But were I now where Allan glides,
Or heard

my native Devon's tides,
So sweetly would I rest and pray,
That heaven would close my wintry day.

'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,

They bade me to the church repair;
It was my bridal morn, they said,

And my true love would meet me there.
But wve betide the cruel guile,
That drowned in blood the morning smile!
And woe betide the fairy dream;
I only waked to sob and scream -

Sir Walter Scott.


By the Rev. Dr John Erskine on hearing an Officer swear.

Soldier ! so tender of thy prince's fame,
Why so profuse of a much higher name?
For thy King's sake the brunt of battle bear,
But for the King of kings' sake do not swear.


See, reader, here, in youth, or age, or prime,
The stealing steps of never-ending time;
With wisdom mark the moment as it flies,
Think what a moment is to bim who dies.



'Twas summer, and a Sabbath eve,

And balmy was the air,
I saw a sight that made me grieve,

yet the sight was fair,
For in a coffin lay
Two little babes as sweet as May.

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
They lay together, side by side.

Their mother, as a lily pale,

Sat near them on a bed,
And bending o'er them told her tale,

And many a tear she shed.
But oft she cried, amidst her pain,
My babes and I shall meet again.



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?

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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,
And smote my heart with hollow fear-

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

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