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When he had better far have stretched his ROBERT SOUTHEY. limbs

1774--1843. Beside a brook in mossy forest dell, By sun or inoonlight, to the influxes

THE TENT OF MOATH. Of shapesand sounds and shifting elements, Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song Nor rich nor poor was Moath; God had And of his fame forgetful. So his fame

given Should share in Nature's immortality, Enough, and blest him with a mind content. A venerable thing! and so his song i No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams; Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself But ever round his station he beheld Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so; Camels that knew his voice, And youths and maidens most poetical, And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call, Who lose the deepening twilights of the And goats that, morn and eve, spring

Came with full udders to the damsel's hand. In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Dear child! the tent beneath whose shade Full of meek sympathy must heave their they dwelt sighs

It was her work; and she had twined Oer Philomela's pity-pleading strains. His girdle's many hues; My Friend, and thou, our Sister, we have And he had seen his robe learned

Grow in Oneiza's loom. A different lore: we may not thus profane How often with a memory-mingled joy, Nature s sweet voices, always full of love Which made her mother live before his And joyance. 'Tis the merry nightingale sight,

(woof; That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates He watched her nimble fingers thread the With fast thick warble his delicious notes, Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and As he were fearful that an April night

toiled, Would be too short for him to utter forth Tossed the thin cake on spreading palm, His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Or fixed it on the glowing oven's side Of all its music!

With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity. And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 'Tis the cool evening hour: Which the great lord inhabits not; and so The tamarind from the dew This grove is wild with tangling underwood, Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. And the trim walks are broken up,and grass,

Before their tent the mat is spread; Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the The old man's solemn voice paths,

Intones the holy book. But never elsewhere in one place I knew What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, So many nightingales; and far and near, Its marble walls bedecked with flourished In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, truth,

(word They answer and provoke each other's Azure and gold adornment? Sinks the songs,

With deeper influence from the Imam's With skirmish and capricious passagings,

voice And murmurs musical and swift jug-jug; Where, in the day of congregation, crowds And one, low piping, sounds more sweet Perform the duty-task? than all,

Their father is their priest, Stirring the air with such an harmony,

The stars of heaven their point of prayer, That should you close your eyes, you might And the blue firmament almost

(bushes, The glorious temple, where they feel Forget it was not day. On moonlight The present Deity. Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the Yet through the purple glow of eve twigs,

[bright and full, Shines dimly the white moon. [lance, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both The slackened bow, the quiver, the long Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the Rest on the pillar of the tent. [brow, shade

Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's Lights up her love-torch.

The dark-eyed damsel sits;
The old man tranquilly
Up his curled pipe inhales

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The tranquillizing herb.
So listen they the reed of Thalaba,
While his skilled fingers modulate
Thelow, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones.
Or if he strung the pearls of poesy,
Singing with agitated face
And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach

the heart,
A tale of love and woe;

[face, Then, if the brightening moon that lit his In darkness favoured hers, Oh! even with such a look, as fables say, The mother ostrich fixes on her egg, Till that intense affection Kindle its light of life,

[ness Even in such deep and breathless tenderOneiza's soul is centred on the youth, So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, Save when from her full eyes She wipes away the swelling tears That dim his image there.

THE SEA

Thus aged men, full loth and slow,
The vanities of life forego,
And count their youthful follies o'er,
Till Memory lends her light no more.
The eve, that slow on upland fades,
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades,
Where, sunk within their banks profound,
Her guardian streams to meeting wound.
The stately oaks, whose sombre frown
Of noontide made a twilight brown,
Impervious now to fainter light,
Of twilight make an early night.
Hoarse into middle air arose
The vespers of the roosting crows,
And with congenial murmurs seem
To wake the Genii of the stream;
For louder clamoured Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied.
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath resigned.
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul
Felt in the scene a soft control,
With lighter footstep pressed the ground,
And often paused to look around;
And, though his path was to his love,
Could not but linger in the grove,
To drink the thrilling interest dear
Of awful pleasure checked by fear.
Such inconsistent moods have we,
Even when our passions strike the key.
Now through the woods dark mazes past,
The opening lawn he reached at last,
Where, silvered by the moonlight ray,
The ancient Hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled,
That frowned of old around its head;
The battlements, the turrets gray,
Seemed half abandoned to decay:
On barbican and keep of stone
Stern Time the foeman's work had done.
Where banners the invader braved,
The harebell now and wallflower waved;
In the rude guard-room, where of yore
Their weary hours the warders wore,
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze,
On the paved floor the spindle plays;
The flanking guns dismounted lie,
The moat is ruinous and dry,
The grim portcullis gone, and all
The fortress turned to peaceful hall.

How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky The billows heave! one glowing green

expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's

neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst Embathed in emerald glory.

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WALTER SCOTT.

1771-1832.

EVENING AT ROKEBY.

The sultry summer day is done,
The western hills have hid the sun,
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.
Old Barnard's towers are purple still,
To those that gaze from Toller Hill;
Distant and high, the towers of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows.
And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay,
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold arrayed,
Streaks yet awhile the closing shade,
Then slow resigns to darkening heaven
The tints which brighter hours had given.

A LANDSCAPE.

Far in the chambers of the west, The gale had sighed itself to rest;

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The moon was cloudless now and clear,
But pale, and soon to disappear.
The thin gray clouds wax dimly light
On Brusleton and Houghton height;
And the rich dale, that eastward lay,
Waited the wakening touch of day,
To give its woods and cultured plain,
And towers and spires, to light again.
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell,
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton Fell,
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar,
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar,
While, as a livelier twilight falls
Emerge proud Barnard's bannered walls ;
High-crowned he sits in dawning pale,
The sovereign of the lovely vale.
What prospects from his watch-tower high
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye !
Far sweeping to the east, he sees
Down his deep woods the course of Tees,
And tracks his wanderings by the steam
Of summer vapours from the stream;
And ere he paced his destined hour
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower,
These silver mists shall melt away,
And dew the woods with glittering spray ;
Then in broad lustre shall be shown
That mighty trench of living stone,
And each huge trunk that, from the side,
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,
Where Tees, full many a fathom low,
Wears with his rage no common foe;
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound checks his fierce career,
Condemned to mine a channeled way
O'er solid sheets of marble gray.
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,
Shall rush upon the ravished sight;
But many a tributary stream
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam ;
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers,
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ;
The rural brook of Egliston,
And Balder, named from Odin's son;
And Greta, to whose banks ere long
We lead the lovers of the song;
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild,
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
And last and least, but loveliest still,
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.

His broidered cap and plume. For royal was his garb and mien ;

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,

Trimmed with the fur of martin wild ; His vest of changeful satin sheen,

The dazzled eye beguiled; His gorgeous collar hung adown, (crown, Wrought with the badge of Scotland's The thistle brave, of old renown: His trusty blade, Toledo right, Descended from a baldric bright; White were his buskins, on the heel His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; His bonnet, all of crimson fair, Was buttoned with a ruby rare: And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen A prince of such a noble mien. The monarch's form was middle size; For feat of strength, or exercise,

Shaped in porportion fair; And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye

His short curled beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance,

And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, ob ! he had that merry glance

That seldom lady's heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

I said he joyed in banquet bower; But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, How suddenly his cheer would change,

His look o'ercast and lower, If, in a sudden turn, he felt The pressure of his iron belt, That bound his breast in penance pain, In memory of his father slain. Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, Soon as the passing pang was o'er, Forward he rushed, with double glee, Into the stream of revelry: Thus, dim-seen object of affright Startles the courser in his flight, And half he halts, half springs aside ; But feels the quickening spur applied, And, straining on the tightened rein, Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.

KING JAMES IV.

CHRISTMAS.

An easy task it was, I trow,
King James's manly form to know.
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doffed to Marmion bending low,

HEAP on more wood !--the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew.
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yelled out the joys of' fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's Hall.

Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where the monster fell ;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery ;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh, what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light?
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest

ale;

'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the

year.

And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night; On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung: That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose ; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of “post and pair." * All hailed with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn By old blue-coated serving-man;

Still linger, in our northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim To Southron ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain stream. And thus my Christmas still I hold Where my great grandsire came of old, With amber beard and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic airThe feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine. Small thought was his in after-time E'er to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast That he was loyal to his cost; The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land, -but kept his beard.

In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined, Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand Of the fair dame that rules the land,

* An old game at cards.

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Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer Speed on their wings the passing year.

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN

FIELD.
AND why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden, on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames

Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern strand,

His host Lord Surrey lead ? What'vails the vain knight-errant's brand? -Oh, Douglas, for thy leading wand!

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! Oh for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, And cry- "Saint Andrew and our right!". Another sight had seen that morn, From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!The precious hour has passed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain ; Wheeling their march, and circling still Around the base of Flodden hill. Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, "Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! And see ascending squadrons come

Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon :-hap what hap, My basnet to a prentice cap,

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till.
Yet more! yet more !-how far arrayed
They file from out the hawthorn shade,

And sweep so gallant by;
With all their banners bravely spread,

And all their armour flashing high !
St. George might waken from the dead,

To see fair England's standards fly. “Stint in thy prate,” quoth Blount,

"thou 'dst best,
And listen to our lord's behest."
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,
" This instant be our band arrayed :
The river must be quickly crost,
That we may join Lord Surrey's host.
If fight King James,- -as well I trust
That fight he will, and fight he must,
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall iarry, while the battle joins."

Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu-
Far less would listen to his prayer
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And muttered, as the flood they view,
The pheasant in the falcon's claw
He scarce will yield to please a daw:
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,

So Clare shall bide with me.
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,
Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep,

He ventured desperately;
And not a moment will he bide
Till squire or groom before him ride;
Headmost of all he stems the tide,

And stems it gallantly.
Eustace held Clare upon her horse,

Old Hubert led her rein;
Stoutly they braved the current's course,
And, though far downward driven perforce,

The southern bank they gain;
Behind them, straggling, came to shore,

As best they might, the train:
Each o'er his head his yew bow bore,

A caution not in vain ;-
Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,

Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a Cross of Stone
That, on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host for deadly fray: (west,
Their marshalled lines stretched east and

And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation passed

From the loud cannon mouth; Not in the close successive rattle That breathes the voice of modern battle,

But slow and far between.The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed : “Here by this Cross,” he gently said,

You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: Oh, think of Marmion in thy prayer ! Thou wilt not?-well, no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare, You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,

With ten picked archers of my train ; With England if the day go hard,

To Berwick speed amain.
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My spoils shall at your feet be laid

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