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THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ;
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,

He gained from Heaven, 'twas all he wished, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

T. Gray.

XX.

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

O! we bring with us the hero

Lo! we bring the conquering Græme, Crowned as best becomes a victor

From the altar of his fame;

Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,

As we march o'er moor and lea!

Is there any here will venture

To bewail our dead Dundee?

Let the widows of the traitors
Weep until their eyes are dim!
Wail ye may full well for Scotland-
Let none dare to mourn for him!
See! above his glorious body
Lies the royal banner's fold-

See! his valiant blood is mingled
With its crimson and its gold.
See how calm he looks and stately,
Like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning
Breaks along the battle-field!
See Oh never more, my comrades!
Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,
As the hour of fight drew nigh;
Never shall we hear the voice that,
Clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for King and Country,
Bade us win the field or fall!

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Open wide the vaults of Athol,

Where the bones of heroes rest

Open wide the hallowed portals

To receive another guest!

Last of Scots, and last of freemen―
Last of all that dauntless race
Who would rather die unsullied
Than outlive the land's disgrace!

O thou lion-hearted warrior!
Reck not of the after-time :
Honour may be deemed dishonour,
Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
Of the noble and the true,
Hands that never failed their country,
Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep!—and till the latest trumpet
Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver
Chieftain than our own Dundee.

W. E. Aytoun.

XXI.

THE KNIGHT'S LEAP.

A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR.

O the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine;
And the water is spent and gone?

Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine—

I never shall drink but this one.

'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,
And lead him me round to the door :

He must take such a leap to-night perforce,
As horse never took before.

'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I have drank my share of wine;

From Trier to Coln there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.

'I have lived by the saddle for years two score ; And if I must die on tree

Why the old saddle-tree which has borne me of yore Is the properest timber for me.

'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest,
How the Altenahr hawk can die :

If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest
He must take to his wings and fly.'

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And he mounted his horse at the door;
And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine,
As man never drained before.

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And he leapt him out over the wall;

Out over the cliff, out into the night,
Three hundred feet of fall.

They found him next morning below in the glen,

With never a bone in him whole

A mass or a prayer now, good gentlemen,

For such a bold rider's soul.

C. Kingsley.

XXII.

ANCIENT GREECE.

(FROM THE GIAOUR.')

LIME of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave,-
Oh servile offspring of the free !—
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame :
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,

The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace,
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

Byron.

XXIII.

THE SEA.

HE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!

I am where I would ever be ;

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

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