The lad with the bonny blue feather Was a page and a gentleman born; But Sir Walter, a Knight of the Garter, Curled his thin lip in anger and scorn. Shall he, who the lion at Bullen Helped trample the tall fleur-de-lys, Compete for the prize of the jewel With such a mere stripling as this? "No, no!" cried the crowd of his varlets, Waving with yellow and gold, All shaking their colours and ribbons, And tossing their banner's fringed fold. To heighten the insolent clamour, I saw him look fierce at the rabble, Pale grew the lips of the vassals, Sir Tracey turned colour and frowned; But the people, with scorn of oppression, Hissed, and the hisses flew round. Then the King waved his hand as for silence, Stamped loud on the step of his throne, And bade the two rivals together Dismount, and their errors disown. "Ah! this page is a rival for any, And fit to break lance with his king; And bowed till his plume swept the ground; Then, clapping on helmet and feather, Rode into the lists with a bound. Sir Walter was silently waiting; He shone like a statue of gold; Any way that the wind might be blowing. Oh, it brought the blood hot to my cheek! The King gave the sign, and the trumpet With a shock that tough iron would rive. "Fresh lances!" God's blessing on Dicky His spear has flown out of his hand, His sword waves, a torch, in his grasp; Then the King took the brightest of diamonds He gave it to bonny blue feather, And made him the Baron of Bray. The jewels beat out of his chains, His armour all battered and dusty, Then they caught his mad, froth-covered charger, I was still looking down on the bearers, WESTMINSTER ABBEY. [WASHINGTON IRVING. See Page 1.] N one of those sober and rather | pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to melancholy days in the latter part three figures rudely carved in relief, but nearly of autumn, when the shadows of worn away by the footsteps of many generations. morning and evening almost They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; mingle together, and throw a the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names gloom over the decline of the alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in year, I passed several hours in later times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus rambling about Westminster Abbey. Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I remained some little while musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and had As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which formed the together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy. I passed some time in Poets' Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memorics; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstand perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monumens will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has relled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walking the simplicity of these memorials, I have to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered co.umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spa ciousness and gloom cf this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition to see how they are crowded always observed that the visitors to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown, for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory, for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. [WILLIAM SHENSTONE. Born at the Leasowes, Halesowen, Shropshire. Educated at Pembroke College, Oxford. COME listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Of gentle blood the damsel came; And faultless was her beauteous form, Oh, had he never seen that day! Which gives the brave the keenest wound. So pale or yet so chill appear, With faltering voice she weeping said, 66 Oh, Dawson, monarch of my heart! Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part. "Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy's woes: Oh, George! without a prayer for thee My orisons should never close. "The gracious prince that gave him life Would crown a never-dying flame; And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lisp the giver's name. "But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragged To yonder ignominious tree, Thou shalt not want a faithful friend To share thy bitter fate with thee." She had not loved her favourite more. Distorted was that blooming face, Which she had fondly loved so long; And stifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly sung: And severed was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly closed; And mangled was that beauteous breast, On which her love-sick head reposed: And ravished was that constant heart, Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see; But when twas mouldered into dust, "Now, now," she cried, "I follow thee. "My death, my death alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more." The dismal scene was o'er and past, The lover's mournful hearse retired The maid drew back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expired. Though justice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty sheds is due; For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, and so true. THE school-house prayers were the same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys, who stood all together at the further table-of all sorts and sizes, like young bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him when he was in the same position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and poor little slight Arthur standing with them, and as he was leading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after prayers, and showing him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows looking on to the school close. There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the furthest corner by the fire-place occupied by the sixth-form boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags, for the fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves. Being fags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were all bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read. Within a few minutes, therefore, of their entry, all the other boys who slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to each other in whispers; while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed talking and laughing. 66 Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands ?" "Of course, if you like, " said Tom, staring; "that's your washhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morning, if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room. By kind permission of the Author. This acknowledgment was inadvertently omitted at rage 100. 32-VOL. I. |