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And, noble earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :-

"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone;
The hand of Douglas is his own ;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp!"
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,

And "This to me!" he said,

"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!

And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
E'en in thy pitch of pride,

Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou 'rt defied!
And if thou said'st I am not a peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

On the earl's cheek the flush of rage

O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then,

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

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And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?

No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!

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Up drawbridge, grooms!-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.”

Lord Marmion turned,

well was his need,

And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass, there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim :

And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,

A shout of loud defiance pours,

And shakes his gauntlet at the towers!

Sir W. Scott.

CLXV.

HIGHLAND WAR-SONG.

IBROCH of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil,

PIB

Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one,
Come
every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges : Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded :

Faster come, faster come, faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset! Sir W. Scott.

CLXVI.

DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

THE king stood still

Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:-

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

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Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

“And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee. Absalom!

“ And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!
And thy dark sin! — oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently — and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

N. P. Willis.

CLXVII.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE."

LOOK not upon the wine when it

Is red within the cup!

Stay not for pleasure when she fills
Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow,

A spell of madness lurks below.

They say 't is pleasant on the lip,

And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood,

And dulls the tooth of pain.

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DAY

When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,

Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off

His costly raiment for the leper's garb,

And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip

Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,

Waiting to hear his doom:

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Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!

For He has smote thee with His chastening rod,

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