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A little fountain-cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,

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Drink weary・ pilgrim • drink • and • pray For the kind soul of Sybil

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Grey •

Who built this cross and • well
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And as she stooped his brow to lave-
"Is it the hand of Clare," he said,

"Or injured Constance, bathes my head?"
Then as remembrance rose-
"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!
I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare ;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, “the while-
O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle !"

Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!"-he said "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.

I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,

And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be !—this dizzy trance—
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labour Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, fiend!—with cruel hand,

Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O think on faith and bliss!

By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And-Stanley! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye :
With dying hand above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! on Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.-Moore.
THOSE evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on ;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

INTRODUCTION TO "ENDYMION."-Keats.

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in ; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

THE SOWER'S SONG.-Carlyle,

Now hands to seed-sheet, boys,

We step and we cast; old Time's on wing; And would ye partake of Harvest's joys, The corn must be sown in Spring. Fall gently and still, good corn, Lie warm in thy earthy bed; And stand so yellow some morn,

For beast and man must be fed.

Old Earth is a pleasure to see

In sunshiny cloak of red and green;
The furrow lies fresh; this Year will be
As Years that are past have been.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,

For beast and man must be fed.

Old Mother, receive this corn,

The son of Six Thousand golden sires;
All these on thy kindly breast were born;
One more thy poor child requires.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.

Now steady and sure again,

And measure of stroke and step we keep; Thus up and down we cast our grain:

Sow well and you gladly reap.

Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.

FROM "THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT
MARINER."-Coleridge.

O WEDDING-GUEST! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk,
With a goodly company!

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell; but this I tell
To thee thou wedding-guest :
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The mariner whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone and now the wedding guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

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