Clare drew her from the sight away, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring. O, woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran; Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; She stooped her by the runnel's side, Where water, clear as diamond spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, Who. built, this, cross, and, well. A Monk supporting Marmion's head; 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,— Lord Marmion started from the ground, For wasting fire, and dying groan, It may not be !-this dizzy trance- 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 Oh think on faith and bliss, A light on Marmion visage spread, With dying hand, above his head Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!' THE GLOVE AND THE LION. HUNT. " [This right spirited little poem should be recited with vivacity and vim. The whole action of the piece should be as rapid as the feat of the Count in leaping for and regaining the glove.] King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed : And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another; Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "the Count,my lover, is brave as brave can be, He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him, and smiled, He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "Not love," quoth he. "but vanity, sets love a task like that." OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. BRYANT. [This inspiriting piece should ring out as sharp and decided as the war-call of a trumpet or the crack of a Sharp's rifle. Every sentence should be made to tell-as though you meant not only to drive in the nail, but to clinch it.] Lay down the axe, fling by the spade: For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green, That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts--see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, 88 Men of the glade and forest! leave His serried ranks shall reel before And ye who breast the mountain storm A bulwark that no fe can break. And ye whose homes are by her grand Have swelled them over bank and bourne, And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye who throng, beside the deep, On his long murmuring marge of sand, And flings the proudest barks that swim, Few, few were they whose swords of old, But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land. That Might and Right move hand in hand; And glorious must their triumph be. |