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The widowed mother and the fatherless boy,
They, at this untimely hour,
Wander o'er the desert sands.
Alas! the setting sun
Saw Zeinab in her bliss,
Hodeirah's wife beloved,
The fruitful mother late,

Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named,
They wished their lot like hers:
She wanders o'er the desert sands
A wretched widow now,

The fruitful mother of so fair a race;
With only one preserved,

She wanders o'er the wilderness.

No tear relieved the burden of her heart;
Stunned with the heavy woe, she felt like one
Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood.
But sometimes, when the boy

Would wet her hand with tears,
And, looking up to her fixed countenance,
Sob out the name of Mother, then did she
Utter a feeble groan.

At length, collecting, Zeinab turned her eyes
To heaven, exclaiming: Praised be the Lord!
He gave, He takes away!

The Lord our God is good!'

A Moonlight Scene.-From Roderick, the Last of the Goths.'
How calmly, gliding through the dark-blue sky,
The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,
Through thinly scattered leaves, and boughs grotesque,
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh! how awfully,
Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The summits of Auseva rise serene !
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound

Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars,

Which in that brightest moonlight well-nigh quenched, Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth

Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,

Draw on with elevating influence

Towards eternity the attempered mind.

Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently

Breathes forth her hymn of praise.

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Battle of the Baltic.

1

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.-

2.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.-

3.

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

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While the billow mournful rolls,

Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; And the mermaid's song condoles,

when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave !

Song.

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Sir Walter Scott: 1771-1832.

Visit of William of Deloraine to Melrose Abbey.—From The Lay of the Last Minstrel,'

1.

Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little recked he of the scene so fair.
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate—

'Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?'
'From Branksome I,' the Warrior cried;
And straight the wicket opened wide:
For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

2.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod;
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the Warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

3.

'The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me;
Says, that the fated hour is come,

And that to-night I shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb.'
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.

4.

And strangely on the Knight looked he,
And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide:
'And dar'st thou, Warrior! seek to see
What heaven and hell alike would hide ;
My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;
For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn ;
Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.
Would'st thou thy every future year

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear-
Then, daring Warrior, follow me!'. . . .

visor of the helmet

endure

5.

Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,

And fought in Spain and Italy;

And he thought on the days that were long since by,
When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high:
Now, slow and faint, he led the way,

Where, cloistered round, the garden lay;

The pillared arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

6.

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,
Glistened with the dew of night;

Nor herb, nor floweret, glistened there,
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start;
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,
That spirits were riding the northern light.

7.

By a steel-clenched postern door,

They entered now the chancel tall;

The darkened roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty, and light, and small;
The keystone, that locked each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys,1 or a quatre-feuille ; 2
The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,

Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound. . . .

8.

The moon on the east oriel shone,

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand,

'Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot, had twined;

Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

The silver light, so pale and faint,

Shewed many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;

1' Flower of the lily,' the royal insignia of France.

2Quarter-foil,' a figure disposed in four segments of circles, supposed to resemble an expanded flower of four petals.

3 The projections from which the arches spring.

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