Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . .
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :

"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz Eustace where ? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!

Redeem my pennon,

Cry — 'Marmion to the rescue ! ' — vain !

Last of my race, on battle-plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's :-fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring :

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Fitz Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;

Tunstall lies dead upon

the field,

His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down :-- my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, -
With Chester charge and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England 's lost. -
Must I bid twice? — Hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone to die!"
They parted, and alone he lay :
Clare drew her from the sight away,

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst?"

O, woman! in our hours of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,

And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain's side,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn? - behold her mark
A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,

In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. pray.
For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.
Who. built. this. cross. and. well.
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brows to lave,"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,

"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"—

"Alas!" she said, “the while,

O, think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She - died at Holy Isle."

Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound :
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
“Then it was truth," he said; "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!

For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be! this dizzy trance
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.

With fruitless labor Clara bound,

And strove to stanch the gushing wound.
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"
So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, Fiend! - with cruel hand
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine!

O, think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And Stanley! was the cry:-

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye :

With dying hand above his head,

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted, "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"

Were the last words of Marmion.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in England, April 23, 1564; and died April 23, 1616. Very little is known of the events of his life, and of his personal character and habits. He married young, went to London soon after his marriage, became an actor, a dramatic author, and a shareholder in one of the London theaters; acquired considerable property, and retired to his native place a few years before his death, and there lived in ease and honor. He was the author of thirtyfive plays (rejecting those of doubtful authenticity), written between 1590 and 1613, besides poems and sonnets.

Shakespeare is pronounced by Mr Hallam, who was a most conscientious critic and careful writer, to be the greatest name in all literature. It would, of course, be im

possible, in the compass of a notice like this, to do anything like justice to the universality of his powers, his boundless fertility of invention, his dramatic judgment, his wit, humor, and pathos, his sharp observation, and his profound knowledge of the human heart. Nor is it easy to point out to the young reader, within a reasonable compass, the best sources of information and criticism; for the editions of Shakespeare are numberless, and the books that have been written about him would alone make a considerable library. The following works, however, may be read and consulted with profit: Drake's "Shakespeare and his Times," "Hazlitt's Lectures," Mrs. Jameson's "Characteristics of Women," Dr. Johnson's preface, Schlegel's "Lectures on Dramatic Literature," Coleridge's "Lectures on Shakespeare," the notes and introductory notices in Knight's pictorial edition, together with the biography prefixed, and, especially, the criticism upon Shakespeare contained in Hallam's Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries.

Shakespeare's life and writings teach two lessons; which, as they are not very obvious to the apprehension of the young, and as they have a somewhat practical bearing upon life, may be here set down. He is an instance directly opposed to the Byronic notion, that great genius and great unhappiness invariably go together. We have every reason to believe that his temperament was cheerful and joyous, and that is certainly the spirit of his writings. He is often tragic, but never morbid. In the next place, Shakespeare is a proof that the highest poetical genius is not inconsistent with practical and successful business habits. There can be no doubt that he was himself an excellent man of business, for he accumulated an ample fortune within a few years, and by occupations in which punctuality, economy, and method are particularly important.

K

ING.

What's he, that wishes for more men from England?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin ;
If we are marked to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But, if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace e! I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!