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BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;
The spearmen's twilight wood ?
Bear back both friend and foe!”
At once lay levell’d low ;
As their tinchell cows the game.
We'll drive them back as tame.".
Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Each targe was dark below;
They hurld them on the foe.
My banner-man advance !
Upon them with the lance !”— A circle of sportsmen, who by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through tinchel.
The horsemen dash'd among the route,
As deer break through the broom ;
They soon make lightsome room.
Where, where, was Roderick then ?
Were worth a thousand men.
The battle's tide was pour’d;
Vanish'd the mountain sword.
Receives her roaring linn,
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
The Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
From the Lord of the Isles, Canto VI. O GAY, yet fearful to behold, Flashing with steel and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears, With plumes and pennons waving fair, Was that bright battle-front; for there
Rode England's king and peers. And who that saw the monarch ride, His kingdom battled by his side, Could then his direful doom foretell ? Fair was his seat in knightly selle, And in his sprightly eye was set Some spark of the Plantagenet ; Though light and wandering was his glance, It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. “ Know'st thou,” he said, “ De Argentine, Yon knight who marshals thus their line ?”
EVE OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.
" The tokens on his helmet tell
presence where our banners wave ?”
Of Hereford's high blood he came,
his battle-axe the swing,
Such strength upon the blow was put,
From Rokeby, Canto V. O LADY, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree; Too lovely glow the lilies light, The varnish'd holly's all too bright, The may-flower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine; But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due ; The myrtle-Dough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree! Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albion bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew; On favour'd Erin's crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green ; But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
Melrose Abbey. From the Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto II. IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; When buttress and buttress alternately Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave ;Then
alone the while Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; And, home returning, soothly swear Was never scene so sad and fair!