Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Will not 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;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,

66

"O, Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!"

BRANKSOME HALL.

WALTER SCOTT.

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 wight, 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,
Loitered through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire;
The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretched 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 squires of name

Brought them their steeds to bower from stall;

Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall

Waited, duteous, on them all:

They were all knights of metal true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword and spur on heel :

They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night;
They lay down to rest,

With corselet laced,

Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;

They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow:
A hundred more fed free in stall;
Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.

Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors, armed, by night?
They watch to hear the bloodhound baying;
They watch to hear the war-horn braying,
To see Saint George's red cross streaming,
To see the midnight beacon gleaming;
They watch, against Southern force and guile,
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,

From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

THE GLOVE AND THE LION.

LEIGH HUNT. A PARAPHRASE FROM FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the

court:

The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their

side,

And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning

show,

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts

below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another;

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air:

Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively

dame,

With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, "the Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be,

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled,

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions

wild;

The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained

the place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

THE DYING KING.

ALEXANDER SMITH. EXTRACT.

A GRIM old king,

Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed

To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day;
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,

Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held