THE sages

Epilogue. [1824.]

for authority, pray, look Seneca's morals or the copy-book The sages to disparage woman's power, Say beauty is a fair but fading flower; I cannot tell I 've small philosophy Yet if it fades it does not surely die, But, like the violet, when decayed in bloom, Survives through many a year in rich perfume.

Witness our theme to-night; two ages gone,

A third wanes fast, since Mary filled the throne.

Brief was her bloom with scarce one sunny day

"Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay: But when, while Scottish hearts and blood you boast,

Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost? O'er Mary's memory the learned quarrel, By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel, Time's echo, old tradition, makes her

The Death of Keeldar.
[1828.]

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Careered along the lea;

The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:

Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engrossed their joys and woes.
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose

By fountain or by stream;
And oft when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,
Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear;
Yon thicket holds the harbored deer,

The signs the hunters know:
With eyes of flame and quivering ears
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears;
The restless palfrey paws and rears;
The archer strings his bow.

The game 's afoot! - Halloo! Halloo!
Hunter and horse and hound pursue;
But woe the shaft that erring flew
That e'er it left the string!

And ill betide the faithless yew!
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew,
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drenched the gray-goose wing.
The noble hound - he dies, he dies;
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes;
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies

Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound,

But Keeldar sleeps forever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death - but still