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Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his comrades bave laid him. Not the half of our heavy task was done,
When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring, And we knew by the distant random gun,
That the foe was then suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory, We carv'd not a line, we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.
WINTER IN COPENHAGEN. ERE yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snon Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And heightened every object to my eyes : For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass ; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 'T'he thick sprung reeds, the watry marshes yield, Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field, The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise: The spreading oak, the beech, the tow'ring pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun. When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.
THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN FITZ-JAMES AND
THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
AND now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. 'The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnish'd sheet of living gold, Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled; In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light; And mountains, that like giants stand, To centinel enchanted land High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurld, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit huar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
From the steep promontory gazed
For princely pomp or churchman's pride! * * * * * * * *
• Blithe were it then to wander here !
To meet with highland plunderers here Were worse than loss of steed or deer.I am alone ;-my bugle strain May call some straggler of the train; Or fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has becn tried.' But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touched the silver strand, Just as the hunter left his stand, And stood concealed amid the brake To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain, With head up-raised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art. In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand. And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow; What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew ; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there hung
Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name
So forth the startled Swan would swing, So turn to prune her ruffled wing. I Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly. On his bold visage, middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth, And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mould, For hardy sports, or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armour trod the shore. Slighting the petty need he showed, He told of his benighted road. His ready speech flowed fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy, Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland, Less used to sue than to command. A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at last replied, That bigbland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. · Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home: Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn a couch was pulled for you; On yonder mountain's purple head Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer.' - Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has erred,' he said; - No right have I to claim, misplaced, The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer here, by fortune tost, My way, my friends, my courser lost,