"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, My father's hand to kiss?— Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! And tell me, what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought- If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, "Into these glassy eyes put light- Give me back him for whom I strove, He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; He cast one long deep troubled look- His banner led the spears no more F. HEMANS. LXXXV CORONACH. He is gone on the mountain, When our need was the sorest. From the raindrops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary: Waft the leaves that are serest, 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, SIR W. SCOTT. 66 LXXXVI THE BOY OF EGREMOND. Say, what remains when Hope is fled?" She answered, "Endless weeping!” For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping. At Embsay rung the matin-bell, In tartan clad and forest green, His voice was heard no more! 'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed; As through the mist he winged his way, That narrow place of noise and strife There now the matin-bell is rung; Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river rolled! ROGERS. LXXXVII THE WILD HUNTSMAN. The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lords pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallowed day Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled. But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; Who was each stranger, left and right, The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase afford?" "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," Cried the fair youth with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange this rude unhallowed noise." |