"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy island wight,
"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady :

"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

66

Though tempests round us gather:

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your highland chief,

My daughter!-oh! my daughter!"

"Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THOMAS GRAY.

[Gray was born in London in 1716, educated at Eton and Cambridge, and he entered himself at the Inner Temple for the purpose of studying for the bar. He then became intimate with Horace Walpole, and accompanied him in his tour of Europe, returning alone in 1741. In 1741 he published his "Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College," and in 1751 his ever-famous "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His principal poem is "The Bard," published in 1757, in which year he was offered, but declined, the office of Laureate, vacant by the death of Cibber. In 1768 he was appointed Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. He died 1771.]

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn.
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy strokc!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll:
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies:
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries;
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate:
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head, upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to misery all he had—a tear;

He gained from heaven-'twas all he wished—a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

'Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; There they alike in trembling hope repose,

The bosom of his Father and his God.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

LORD BYRON.

[See page 205.]

THE seal is set.-Now welcome, thou dread power!
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour,
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear,
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all seeing but unseen.

And here the buzz of eager nations ran

In murmur'd pity, or loud roar'd applause, As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man.

And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus' genial laws,

And the imperial pleasure-Wherefore not? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms-on battle plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where chief actors rot.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony;

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;

He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay-