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And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,
And clamour of the chase was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ;
He strove in vain to wake his horn;
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.

He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reach'd his ears;
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.

Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark, as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.

High o'er the sinner's humbled head

At length the solemn silence broke ;
And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke,

'Oppressor of creation fair!

Apostate spirits' harden'd tool! Scorner of God, scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full.

'Be chas'd forever through the wood :
Forever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is His child.'

Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest's brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
A louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call; her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe ;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn ;
And 'Hark away, and holla, ho!'
Sir W. Scott

CII

TO DAFFODILS

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon :

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We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring:
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing:
We die,

As your hours do; and dry
Away

Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

R. Herrick

CIII

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

F. Hemans

civ

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN

Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek ;
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:

Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak

On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;

The traveller remembers who journey'd this way
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight
As she welcom'd them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say
That she was too good for his wife.

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