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WALTER SCOTT.

1771-1832.

LOCHINVAR.

O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river, where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter; my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

THE LAST MINSTREL.

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine-and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, 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,
And the bride-maidens whispered, ""Twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near:
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! They'11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

THE LAST MINSTREL.

THE way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old,

His withered cheek and tresses grey
Seemed to have known a better day;

WALTER SCOTT.

The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of border chivalry.
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High-placed in hall—a welcome guest-
He poured to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay.

Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuart's throne;
The bigots of the iron time.

Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear!

CORONACH.

HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

THE KNIGHT OF SNOWDOUN'S DREAM.

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing,

Waft the leaves that are serest;
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

THE KNIGHT OF SNOWDOUN'S DREAM.

THE hall was cleared--the stranger's bed
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft an hundred guests had lain,
And dreamed their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast;
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes.
His steed now flounders in the brake;
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;

WALTER SCOTT.

Now, leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honour's lost.
Then-from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night!--
Again returned the scenes of youth,

Of confident undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged.

They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,

As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view,

O were his senses false or true!
Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now?

At length with Ellen in a grove,

He seemed to walk and speak of love;
She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:

The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,
The grisly visage, stern and hoar,

To Ellen still a likeness bore.-
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recalled the vision of the night;
The hearth's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
Half showing, half concealing, all
The uncouth trophies of the hall.

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