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The dying wand'rer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly,
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

DR. DRAKE,

PARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION

Nor far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troops array,
To Surrey's camp to ride;

He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide;
'The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,

And whispered, in an under tone,

"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."

The train from out the castle drew;

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:

"Though something I might plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid,
Part we in friendship from your land,
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 with ire,

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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,
Even 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 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 - 66

And dar'st hou then

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?—
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!—

Up draw-bridge, grooms

Let the portcullis fall."—

what, warder, ho!

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Lord Marmion turned, - well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous grate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending razed his plume.

The steed along the draw-bridge 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 clenchéd hand,

And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace: "A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood; I thought to slay him where he stood.

'Tis pity of him, too," he cried ;
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
I warrant him a warrior tried."-
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls,

SCOTT

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood!
When fond recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ;
The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well;
The old oaken bucket - the iron-bound bucket-
That moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket- the iron-bound bucket -
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it.
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from that loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket- the iron-bound bucket-
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

WOODWORTH

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

STAND! the ground 's your own, my braves i
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it

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- ye who will.

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WHEN leagued Oppression poured to northern wars
Her whiskered panders and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland

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Warsaw's last champion, from her hight surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid-
Oh, Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! Our country yet remains!.
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live! with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-hights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm paced, and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly;
Revenge or death- the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

grasp

Dropped from her nerveless the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed the high career:
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell!

CAMPBELL.

BROUGHAM AND CANNING.

UPON that occasion, the oration of Brougham was, at the outset, disjointed and ragged, and apparently without aim or application. He careered over the whole annals of the world, and collected every instance in which genius had degraded itself at the footstool of power, or principle had been sacrificed for the vanity or the lucre of place; but still there was no allusion to Canning, and no connection that ordinary men could discover with the business before the house. When, however, he had collected every material which suited his purpose, when the mass had become big and black, he bound it about and about with the cords of illustration and of argument; when its union was secure, he swung it round and round, with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of a whirlwind, in order that its impetus and its effect might be the more tremendous; and, while doing this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and pointed his finger, to make the aim and the direction sure.

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