Strown, scattered.

Foe, enemy.

Surf, the foam of the

waves.

Distorted, twisted out

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.*

For the angel of death spread his wings on the
blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe* as he passed; 10
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and

chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever
were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of

his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 15 turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.*

of the regular or natu- And there lay the rider, distorted* and pale,

ral shape.

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his
mail; *

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Asshur* are loud in their

wail;

*

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;*
And the might of the Gentile,* unsmote by the

sword,*

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the
LORD!

20

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.*-Scott.

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832), the greatest of English romantic poets and novelists, was born at Edinburgh. He was a lawyer by profession. His poems were published for the most part between 1805 and 1814. Scott was a man of the most generous and amiable nature. He was made a baronet by George IV. Chief works: Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, Lady of the Lake, Rokeby, Lord of the Isles, Waverley Novels, Tales of a Grandfather, &c. Border, the land a few ОH, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; miles on either side of Through all the wide Border* his steed was the

the boundary between England and Scotland

best:

* Lochinvar, a lake in Kirkcudbrightshire, in the centre of which stood the ancient fortified castle of Lochinvar, the seat of the Gordons. Hence the chief is also called Lochinvar.

5

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15

And save his good broad-sword he weapon had

none;

He rode all unarmed,* and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight* like the young Loch-
invar.

high birth or fortune admitted to military A title of

honour.

He stayed not for brake,* and he stopped not rank.
for stone,

Brake, a thicket of

He swam the Esk* river where ford* there was brambles.

none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented-the gallant came late:
For a laggard* in love and a dastard* in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

Netherby Hall, a for

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,*
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, tified place about ten

and all:

Then he spoke the bride's father, his hand on

his sword,

miles from Middleby in Dumfriesshire.

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a Craven, cowardly. word),

"Ho! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal,* young Lord Lochin- Bridal, wedding. var?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;20 Love swells like the Solway,* but ebbs like its

tide

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine

Solway, a river in the

south of Scotland.

To lead but one measure,* drink one cup of wine, Measure, a dance.
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

25 The bride kissed the goblet; * the knight took Goblet, drinking cup.

30

it up,

He quaffed* off the wine, and he threw down Quaffed, drank.

the cup;

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did
fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet

Galliard, one whose nature it is to be gay and active; it also

means a dance.

and plume;

Bride-maidens, those And the bride-maidens* whispered, ""Twere 35

who were in attend

ance on the bride.

hind the saddle.

better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young
Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the
charger stood near;

Croupe, a place be- So light to the croupe *the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!-
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush,
and scaur!*

Scaur, a steep bank of a river.

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode
and they ran;

40

Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they

in Eskdale.

Gallant, a lover.

see!

So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant * like young
Lochinvar ?

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.*-Wolfe.

CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) was born at Dublin. He was a poet of great promise. Byron considered this poem one of the most perfect in the language.

Corse, a dead body.
Ramparts, the walls
around fortified
places.

Farewell shot, it is
customary at a mili-
tary funeral for the
soldiers present to
fire their guns over
the grave.
Bayonet, a kind of
dagger fixed to a
musket, SO called

*

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts* we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

*

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets* turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

5

* Sir John Moore was a distinguished military commander. After a skilful and arduous retreat before a superior force of the French, he fell mortally wounded by a cannon ball, under the walls of Corunna, a town on the north-west coast of Spain, January 16, 1809.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

ΙΟ

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20

25

30

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Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak * around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

Bayonne, a

town in France, where, it is said. bayonets were first made.

Martial cloak, a cloak which officers and soldiers use when forced to pass the

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was night in the open air, dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe* and the stranger would tread o'er
his head,

And we far away on the billow.*

Lightly they'll talk 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 a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random * gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,"
But we left him alone with his glory.

or when exposed to severe weather. Morrow, the English soldiers were to embark on the following morning.

The foe, the French

under Marshal Soult. Billow, the sea.

Upbraid, to reproach.
Reck, care.

Random, at hazard.

Gory, bloody.

Raised not a stone,

*

no

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.* -Southey.

Ir was a summer's evening,
Old Kasper's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun :

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet *

In playing there had found;

Rivulet, a stream, a small river.

* Battle of Blenheim, a victory gained at Blenheim in Bavaria, over the French and Bavarians, by the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene in 1704.

He came to ask, what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant* by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a natural sigh;
""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many* here about;
And often, when I go to plough,

*

The ploughshare turns them out;
For many a thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us, what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting * eyes ;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kasper cried,
"Who put the French to rout,*
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;

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20

25

330

35

Wasted, destroyed, laid bare.

Tender, very kind, affectionate.

They burned his cottage to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

40

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.,