185. FITZJAMES AND RODERICK DHU. [From THE LADY OF THE LAKE.]

"TWICE have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen
In peace; but when I come again,
I come with banner, brand and bow,
As leader seeks his mortal foe:
For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower,
Ne'er panted for the appointed hour,
As I, until before me stand

This rebel chieftain and his band!"*

"Have, then, thy wish!"—he whistled shrill,† And he was answered from the hill;

Wild as the scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through copse and heath, arose
Bonnets and spears and bended bows;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once the lurking foe;
From shingles grey their lances start;
The bracken bush sends forth the dart;
The rushes and the willow-wand
Are bristling into axe and brand;
And every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior arm'd for strife.
That whistle garrison'd the glen
At once with full five hundred men,
As if the yawning hill to heaven
A subterranean host had given.

*The speaker is Fitzjames.
† Roderick Dhu.

Watching their leader's beck and will,
All silent there they stood, and still,
Like the loose crags, whose threatening mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
As if an infant's touch could urge
Their headlong passage down the verge,
With step and weapon forward flung,
Upon the mountain side they hung.
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride
Along Benledi's living side,

Then fix'd his eye and sable brow
Full on Fitz-James-"How sayst thou now?
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;
And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu!"

Fitz-James was brave:-though to his heart The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Return'd the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before :'Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick mark'd—and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.

space

Short he stood then waved his hand;
Down sunk the disappearing band:
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood,
In broom or bracken, heath or wood;

Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow,
In osiers pale and copses low;

It seem'd as if their mother Earth
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth.
The wind's last breath had toss'd in air
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,-
The next but swept a lone hill-side,
Where heath and fern were waving wide.
The sun's last glance was glinted back
From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,—
The next, all unreflected, shone

On bracken green and cold grey stone.

SIR W. SCOTT.

186. PRINCE ARTHUR PLEADING WITH HUBERT FOR HIS EYES.

HAVE you a heart? when your head did but ache

I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again :

And with my hand at midnight held

your

head,

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time,
Saying, What lack you, and where lies your grief?
Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes that never did, nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation

Even in the matter of my innocence :
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm my eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him.

Oh! that there were a single mote in your's,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

SHAKESPEARE.

187. THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

[From LALLA ROOKH.]

HO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,

WH

With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? Oh! to see it at sunset,-when warm o'er the lake

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines

The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam, like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet!

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over!
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!

T. MOORE.

188. THE DEATH OF SAMSON.
[From SAMSON AGONISTES.]

'HE building was a spacious theatre,

Half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high, With seats, where all the lords, and each degree Of sort, might sit in order to behold.

The other side was open, where the throng
On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand.
The feast and moon grew high, and sacrifice

Had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and

wine,