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If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;

When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;

Then go but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

Now slow and faint he led the way,
Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;

The pillar'd arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

Spreading herbs and flowerets bright
Glisten'd with the dew of night;

Nor herb nor floweret glisten'd there,
But was carved in the cloister'd arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start; Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright
That spirits were riding the northern light.

By a steel-clench'd postern door,

They enter'd now the chancel tall; The darken'd roof rose high aloof

On pillars, lofty, and light, and small:
The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lis or a quatre-feuille;

The corbels were carved grotesque and grim,
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim;
With base and with capital flourish'd around,
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven,
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's pale;

And there the dying lamps did burn
Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant chief of Otterburne!

And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale!

O fading honours of the dead!

O high ambition, lowly laid!

The moon on the east oriel shone

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand
"Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand

In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

The silver light so pale and faint,
Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst his cross of red
Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride.
The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane,

And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

LOVE

And said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold;
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither'd heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love?--
How could I to the dearest theme
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
How could I name Love's very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

From The Lay of the Last Minstrel

BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent;
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view;
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
"Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-

But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreath'd in sable smoke;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud envelop'd Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.—
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.—
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;

O! life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.

Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave,
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;

Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain,

Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;

Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again, Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high

They saw lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,

And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;

Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntley, and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied.
'Twas vain:-but Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry;
Loud were the clanging blows;

Advanced, forced back,-now low, now high,

The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,

When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,

It waver'd mid the foes.

No longer Blount the sight could bear:-
"By heaven, and all its saints, I swear,
I will not see it lost!

Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer,—
I gallop to the host."

*

*

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor va'ward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home?
O for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to king Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died!

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