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Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of power,-
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On nature's raptures long should pry.
He stepped between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle 'tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,
'Tis under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils, for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdon claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James,
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.”—
Then, in a tone apart and low,
Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought
What vanity, full dearly bought,
Join’d to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spellbound steps to Benveneu,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
The monarch's life to mountain glaive.”-
Aloud he spoke, “ Thou still dost hold,
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring,
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?
Full well the conscious maiden guessed
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Graeme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
“Forbear thy suit : the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings,
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand,
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live!
Hast thou no other boon to crave ?
No other captive friend to save ?"
Blushing, she turned her from the king,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak
The suit that stain’d her glowing cheek.
“Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm, come forth !” And, at the word,
Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland's lord.
“ For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee, may vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlawed man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name,-
Fetters and warders for the Graeme !"
His chain of gold the king unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp in Ellen's hand,
HE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their green sward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England !
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The cottage homes of England !
By thousands on her plains
They are smiling o'er the silv'ry brook,
And round the hamlet fanes;
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall.
and green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flow'ry sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.
NDER the green hedges after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow,
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn or soft mossy beds.
Sweet as the roses and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie,
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath
'HE lovely young Lavinia once had friends,
And fortune smiled deceit on her birth;
For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, She, with her widowed mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, concealed. Together thus they shunned the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion, and low-minded pride; Almost on nature's common bounty fed, Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content and careless of to-morrow's fate. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves : unstained and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow : The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers : Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once, Thrill’d in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair proportion'd on her polished limbs, Veiled in a simple robe; their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,