Strown, scattered. Foe, enemy. Surf, the foam of the waves. Distorted, twisted out Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.* For the angel of death spread his wings on the And breathed in the face of the foe* as he passed; 10 chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 15 turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.* of the regular or natu- And there lay the rider, distorted* and pale, ral shape. With the dew on his brow and the rust on his And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, And the widows of Asshur* are loud in their wail; * And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;* sword,* Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 20 YOUNG LOCHINVAR.*-Scott. SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832), the greatest of English romantic poets and novelists, was born at Edinburgh. He was a lawyer by profession. His poems were published for the most part between 1805 and 1814. Scott was a man of the most generous and amiable nature. He was made a baronet by George IV. Chief works: Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, Lady of the Lake, Rokeby, Lord of the Isles, Waverley Novels, Tales of a Grandfather, &c. Border, the land a few ОH, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; miles on either side of Through all the wide Border* his steed was the the boundary between England and Scotland best: * Lochinvar, a lake in Kirkcudbrightshire, in the centre of which stood the ancient fortified castle of Lochinvar, the seat of the Gordons. Hence the chief is also called Lochinvar. 5 IO 15 And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed,* and he rode all alone. high birth or fortune admitted to military A title of honour. He stayed not for brake,* and he stopped not rank. Brake, a thicket of He swam the Esk* river where ford* there was brambles. none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented-the gallant came late: Netherby Hall, a for So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,* and all: Then he spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, miles from Middleby in Dumfriesshire. (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a Craven, cowardly. word), "Ho! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal,* young Lord Lochin- Bridal, wedding. var?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;20 Love swells like the Solway,* but ebbs like its tide And now I am come, with this lost love of mine Solway, a river in the south of Scotland. To lead but one measure,* drink one cup of wine, Measure, a dance. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 25 The bride kissed the goblet; * the knight took Goblet, drinking cup. 30 it up, He quaffed* off the wine, and he threw down Quaffed, drank. the cup; She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet Galliard, one whose nature it is to be gay and active; it also means a dance. and plume; Bride-maidens, those And the bride-maidens* whispered, ""Twere 35 who were in attend ance on the bride. hind the saddle. better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young One touch to her hand, one word in her ear, Croupe, a place be- So light to the croupe *the fair lady he swung, Scaur, a steep bank of a river. They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 40 Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they in Eskdale. Gallant, a lover. see! So daring in love and so dauntless in war, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.*-Wolfe. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) was born at Dublin. He was a poet of great promise. Byron considered this poem one of the most perfect in the language. Corse, a dead body. Farewell shot, it is * Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, * We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 * Sir John Moore was a distinguished military commander. After a skilful and arduous retreat before a superior force of the French, he fell mortally wounded by a cannon ball, under the walls of Corunna, a town on the north-west coast of Spain, January 16, 1809. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, ΙΟ 15 20 25 30 5 IO Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him Bayonne, a town in France, where, it is said. bayonets were first made. Martial cloak, a cloak which officers and soldiers use when forced to pass the But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was night in the open air, dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed And we far away on the billow.* Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; or when exposed to severe weather. Morrow, the English soldiers were to embark on the following morning. The foe, the French under Marshal Soult. Billow, the sea. Upbraid, to reproach. Random, at hazard. Gory, bloody. Raised not a stone, * no THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.* -Southey. Ir was a summer's evening, And by him sported on the green She saw her brother Peterkin In playing there had found; Rivulet, a stream, a small river. * Battle of Blenheim, a victory gained at Blenheim in Bavaria, over the French and Bavarians, by the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene in 1704. He came to ask, what he had found, "I find them in the garden, For there's many* here about; * The ploughshare turns them out; "Now tell us, what 'twas all about," "My father lived at Blenheim then, 15 20 25 330 35 Wasted, destroyed, laid bare. Tender, very kind, affectionate. They burned his cottage to the ground, 40 So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head., |