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Yet was I calm : I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crime-
We met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there : One only feeling couldst thou trace,
The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream,
Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave. For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O’er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument ! A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue; The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong. For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep remembrance pours to worth
The goblet's tributary round.
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose ?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ;
A model in thy memory.
In wo, that glory cannot quell;
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountain. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn’d the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering, upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, Mid the chief relics of almighty Rome ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and More near, from out the Cæsars' palace, came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amid A grove which springs through leveli'd battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; But the gladiators' bloody circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection! While Cæsar's chambers and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which soften'd down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and fill’d up, As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
SIR WALTER Scott. 1771-1832.
FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." The feast was over in Branksome tower, And the ladye had gone to her secret bower; Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell, Deadly to hear and deadly to tell : Jesu Maria, shield us well! No living weight, save the ladye alone, Had dared to cross the threshold stone. The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all;
Knight, and page, and household squire, Loiter'd through the lofty hall,
Or crowded round the ample fire : The staghounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race,
From Teviot Stone to Eskdale Moor. Nine-and-twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleugh.
They quitted not their harness bright,
They lay down to rest
With corslet laced,
They carved at the meal
Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Lest Scrope, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,
Many a valiant knight is here ;
Beside his broken spear.