If summon'd to battle once more by the Gaul, Will he roll back the war to his enemy's shore; R. E. BOWLER. LOCHINVAR. O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west! There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone- The bride had consented, the gallant came late; So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: 'That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !" The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, But the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far "To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? SCOTT. MAN'S THREE GUESTS. A KNOCKING at the castle-gate, A jocund lady waited there, Her tresses bright to the zephyr stream'd, queen Whose silken sail and flashing oar of yore, The youth, enraptured at her smile, Welcomed her in, with all her train, He knelt, and paid her homage sweet. Day turn'd to night, and night to day, Bow'd to Pleasure as its queen ; And so, that siren guest, of mirthful mien, Linger'd till the vernal ray, And summer's latest rose had sigh'd itself away. A knocking at the gate! A strong and bearded man withal, And then the warder's horn was blown, A burden at his back he bare, And coldly said, "My name is Care!" Or wealth, or wild Ambition's claim, But dark with dregs was the cup he quaff'd, The mocking tare look'd up and laugh'd, Till his haughty heart was bow'd, And wrinkles on his forehead hung, and o'er his path a cloud. Again, a knocking at the gate, At the wintry eventide, And querulous was the voice that cried. "Ho! rouse the sentinel from his sleep, Had settled on his head. But that thundering at the gate And a boding tone of fate, Yet he raised the palsied hand, But the tottering bulwarks their trust betray'd, Forced its way, And a fleshless hand to a shaft was put, And he was clay. SIGOURNEY. MARCO BOZZARIS. Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams, thro' camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard, Then wore that monarch's signet ring, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now these breathed that haunted air, An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die 'midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke; "Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires, They fought like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd-but Bozzaris fell Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. |