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Her wing shall the eagle flap
His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro
Never, O never!
Sir W. Scott
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
'I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
'I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
'I set her on my pacing steed
'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said "I love thee true."
'She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
'And there she lulléd me asleep,
-Ah! woe betide!
'I saw pale kings and princes too,
'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing.'
WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A doublet of the Lincoln green
'The morn is merry June, I trow,
But she shall bloom in winter snow
He turn'd his charger as he spake
And adieu for evermore.'
Sir W. Scott
THE FLIGHT OF LOVE
HEN the lamp is shatter'd
When the cloud is scatter'd,
As music and splendour
No song when the spirit is mute-
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled,
To endure what it once possesst.
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH
LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, And lovers' ears in hearing; And love, in life's extremity
Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower
And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower To watch her Love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
By fits a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
By fits so ashy pale she grew
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
She heard her lover's riding;