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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say:
“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon
the brook that babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
“ One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;
“ The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
THE splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story:
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Oh hark, oh, hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning,
riddle ! come, hearken And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale !
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; The mother, she asked of his household and home : * Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the
hill, My hall,” quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still ; 'T is the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so
pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone ; But loud, on the morrow,
their wail and their
cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black
eye ; And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale !
Sir Walter Scott.
SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robbed my failing years ;
But now 't is turned to tears.
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand :
And led me by the hand.
Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill; 'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
, And plover's answer shrill. My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has beer,
But never one like mine ;
Her drink was rosy wine.
the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will !
THE LAST LEAF
I saw him once before,
With his cane.