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“Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar; Ridley is riding his fleet-footed gray;
Hidley and Howard there,
Wandale and Windermere;
"Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston ? Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?
Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger;
Jack Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
"Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
“Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might
Linhope and Sornie true,
Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manners, but lions in fight!
"I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
Come all Northumberland,
Teesdale and Cumberland,
Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddesdale, Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye
Mirrored that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold.
Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warriors' shout, Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;
Helmet and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
See how they wane the proud files of the Windermere Howard ! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!
Hear the wide welkin rend ,
While the Scots' shouts ascend "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"
31. THE REQUITAL.
Loud roared the tempest,
Fast fell the sleet;
Passed down the street,
And weary feet.
The moon was hidden;
No stars were bright;
In Heaven that night:
Are rays of light.
She beat her wings
At each window pane,
But all in vain:
“To the pelting rain!"
She sobbed, as the laughter
And mirth grew higher, “Give me rest and shelter
Beside your fire, And I will give you
Your heart's desire."
The dreamer sat watching
His embers gleam, While his heart was floating
Down hope's bright stream; So he wove her wailing
Into his dream.
The worker toiled on,
For his time was brief;
Her own pale grief:
That brought relief.
But fiercer the tempest
Rose than before, When the Angel paused
At a humble door, And asked for shelter
And help once more.
A weary woman,
Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her
Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel
And took her in.
Took her in gently,
And did her best To dry her pinions;
And made her rest With tender pity
Upon her breast.
When the eastern morning
Grew bright and red,
The Angel fled;
And left her dead.
A. A. PROCTER.
32. ROBIN ADAIR.
Welcome on shore again,
Long I ne'er saw thee, love,
Come to my heart again,
Robin Adair !
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and randomi gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.