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Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone,
Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on,
And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause and sadly think,-
"Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.”
When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er!
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false! 'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus-thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains.

LIII.—THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.-Lady Dufferin, I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,

And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again!

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek;

And I still keep listening for the words, you never more may speak! 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary-I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest;

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;
But, oh, they love the better far, the few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young strength

was gone:

There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow; I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for that patient smile, when your heart was like to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my

sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore, Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no

more.

I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,

But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to:

They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were
my bride.

LIV.-LORD WILLIAM.-Southey.

No eye beheld when William plunged young Edmund in the stream;
No human ear but William's heard young Edmund's drowning scream.
Submissive, all the vassals owned the murderer for their lord;
And he-as rightful heir-possessed the house of Erlingford.

The ancient house af Erlingford stood in a fair domain ;
And Severn's ample waters near, rolled through the fertile plain.
And often the way-faring man would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road, to gaze on scenes so fair.

But never could Lord William dare to gaze on Severn's stream;
In every wind that swept its waves, he heard young Edmund scream!
In vain, at midnight's silent hour, sleep closed the murderer's eyes,
In every dream the murderer saw young Edmund's form arise!
-To other climes the pilgrim fled-but could not fly despair;
He sought his home again-but peace was still a stranger there.

Slow went the passing hours, yet swift the months appeared to roll;
And now the day returned, that shook with terror William's soul—
A day that William never felt return without dismay;

For, well had conscience calender'd young Edmund's dying day.
A fearful day was that! the rains fell fast with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast, in vain he quaffed the bowl,
And strove, with noisy mirth, to drown the anguish of his soul—
The tempest, as its sudden swell in gusty howlings came,

With cold and death-like feelings seemed to thrill his shuddering frame.

Reluctant, now, as night came on, his lonely couch he pressed;
And wearied out, he sank to sleep,-to sleep-but not to rest!
Beside that couch, his brother's form, Lord Edmund, seemed to stand
Such, and so pale, as when in death he grasped his brother's hand;
Such, and so pale his face, as when with faint and faltering tongue,
To William's care-a dying charge!-he left his orphan son.

་་

I bade thee with a father's love my orphan Edmund guard

Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! now take thy due reward!"
—He started up—each limb convulsed with agonising fear :
He only heard the storm of night, 'twas music to his ear!
When, lo! the voice of loud alarm his inmost soul appals:
"What ho! Lord William, rise in haste! the water saps thy walls!"
He rose in haste :-beneath the walls he saw the flood appear!
It hemmed him round-'twas midnight now-no human aid was near.
-He heard the shout of joy!-for now a boat approached the wall;
And eager to the welcome aid they crowd for safety all.-
"My boat is small," the boatman cried, "twill bear but one away;
Come in, Lord William, and do ye in heaven's protection stay."

Then William leaped into the boat, his terror was so sore; "Thou shalt have half my gold!" he cried. "Haste!-haste to yonder

shore!"

The boatman plied the oar; the boat went light along the stream ;— Sudden Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! The boatman paused: "Methought I heard a child's distressful cry!” "'Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply; "Haste !-haste!-ply swift and strong the oar! haste!-haste across the stream!"

Again Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! "I heard a child's distressful voice," the boatman said again.

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Nay, hasten on!—the night is dark-and we should search in vain!"
"And oh! Lord William, dost thou know how dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou without pitying hear a child's expiring cry?
How horrible it is to sink beneath the chilly stream,

To stretch the powerless arms in vain, in vain for help to scream!"
The shriek again was heard: it came more deep, more piercing loud:
That instant o'er the flood the moon shone through a broken cloud;
And near them they beheld a child-upon a crag he stood-
A little crag, and all around was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar-the boat approached his resting-place-
The moon-beam shone upon the child-and showed how pale his face!
"Now, reach thine hand," the boatman cried, "Lord William, reach and

save!"

The child stretched forth its little hands-to grasp the hand he gave, Then William shrieked; the hand he touched was cold, and damp, and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms! a heavier weight than lead! "Oh, mercy! help!" Lord William cried, "the waters o'er me flow!" "No-to a child's expiring cries no mercy didst thou show!"

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk, beneath the avenging stream, he shrieked-no human ear heard William's drowning scream.

He

rose,

LV.-CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.-Mrs. Hemans.
TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a King lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontévraud;
Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath;

And light, as the noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of
Death.

On the settled face of Death, a strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by censers' breath, yet it fell still brightest there,

As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show:

Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang Mass for the parted soul:

And solemn were the strains they poured in the stillness of the night, With the Cross above, and the crown, and sword,-and the silent King

in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread;

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang, with a sounding thrill of dread.

And the holy chant was hushed awhile, as, by the torches' flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad Leader came.

He came with haughty look, a dark glance high and clear;

But his prond heart 'neath his breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier.

He stood there still, with drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised For his Father lay before him low-it was Coeur de Lion gazed.

And silently he strove with the workings of his breast;

But there's more in late repented love, than steel may keep suppressed.

And his tears brake forth at last like rain-men held their breath in awe, For his face was seen by his warrior-train, and he recked not that they

saw.

He looked upon the dead! and sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even as lead, pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek, and the hand of lifeless clay,
Till bursting words-yet all too weak-gave his soul's passion way.
Oh, Father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, Father! once again!-I weep!-behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire! Were but this work undone;
I would give England's crown, my sire! to hear thee bless thy son!
Speak to me!-Mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred!

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Hear me! but hear me!-Father, Chief, my King! I must be heard!— Hushed, hushed?-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not? When was it thus ?-Woe, woe, for all the love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright!

And, Father, Father! but for me, they had not been so white! bore thee down, high heart! at last no longer couldst thou strive— "Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel, and say, 'Forgive!' "Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be !The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent knee! And now, before the blessed shrine, my Sire, I see thee lie,—— How will that sad still face of thine, look on me till I die!"

LVI.—THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.-Macaulay. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now, let there be the merry sound of music and of dance. Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land of

France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still, are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!

F

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears,
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living Power who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre!

The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled, from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "Long live our lord the King."

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—

Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery duke is speeding fast across St. André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
"Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now-upon them with the lance!"
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, Heaven be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his

rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance; and all along our van
"Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man;
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As your sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair, for those who never shall return!
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a Mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.—
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

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