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The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom,
The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;

And the moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud 'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle has blown; One pledge is to quaff yet - then mount and begone!

To their honor and peace, that shall rest with the slain, To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again! SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 't was leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we 've left behind us!

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When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
We talk with joyous seeming
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
O, sweet 's the cup that circles then
To those we 've left behind us!

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assign'd us

To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we 've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing,
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

THOMAS MOORE.1

1 THOMAS MOORE, the son of a respectable Roman Catholic grocer, was born in Dublin, in May, 1779. He was educated at the Dublin schools and at Trinity College, Dublin. He began to write verses and love songs at an early age, and on going to London to study law, after leaving college, he returned to his early love for literature. He soon abandoned the law, obtained a place under government, travelled in America, and finally зettled in England to lead a literary life. He made money from bis writings, and received a pension from the government. He

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

I.

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride :
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa

For Jock of Hazeldean.

1

II.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale :
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen "

But aye

she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

III.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen 99

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

was the intimate friend of Lord Byron, and of many of the men of the day most famous in politics and literature. His most ambitious work was Lalla Rookh, but his fame rests chiefly or bis songs and lyrics. He died in 1852.

IV.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmered fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight were there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swel,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that lay;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green:
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose and burst around:

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;

He scoured the seas for many a day;

And now, grown rich with plundered store,

He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,

They cannot see the sun on high:

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