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of Mr. Huskisson. I ask him if the human mind can experience a more dreadful sensation than to see its own jobs refused and the jobs of another religion perpetually succeeding. I ask him his opinion of a jobless faith, of a creed which dooms a man through life to a lean and plunderless integrity. He knows that human nature cannot and will not bear it; and if we were to paint a political Tartarus, it would be an endless series of snug expectations and cruel disappointments.

Letters to my brother Abraham by Peter Plymley. Letter ix.

Yes! you will find people ready enough to do the good Samaritan without the oil and the two pence. W. W., p. 329.

If you choose to represent the various parts in life by holes upon a table, of different shapes,—some circular, some triangular, some square, some oblong,-and the persons acting these parts by bits of wood of similar shapes, we shall generally find that the triangular person has got into the square hole, the oblong into the triangular, and a square person has squeezed himself into a round hole. Ib.

It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding. Their only idea of wit, or rather that inferior variety of this electric talent which prevails in the North, and which under the name of WUT, is so infinitely distressing to people of good taste, is laughing immoderately at stated intervals. Memoir.

213. Sir Walter Scott, 1771-1832. (Handbk., prs. 221, 501, 539.)

Melrose Abbey.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

Lay of the Last Minstrel, canto ii.

Love of Country.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below and gods above,

For love is heaven and heaven is love.

The harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'er
Was flattery lost on poet's ear:

A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile.

Ib.. canto vi.

Ib., canto iii.

To., canto iv.

The Battle of Flodden and Death of Marmion. [Marmion returning from his Scottish mission reaches Flodden, having the Lady Clara, the victim of his avarice and treachery, in his power. He leaves her on the hill within sight of the armies, under the charge of his squires, Blount and Fitz-Eustace.]

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.
But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,"
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.'
And sudden, as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke;
Volumed and fast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone-
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum-

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear or see their foes,

Until at weapon-point they close.

They close in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,

As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye

Could in the darkness nought descry. . .

...

• Bent-The Scottish army set fire to their camp, to descend the bill under cover

of the smoke.

[The two squires, maddened by the sight of the fall of their leader's banner, rush into the battle, and return some time after with the wounded Marmio 1.]

With that, straight up the hill there rode

Two horsemen, drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand:
His arms were smeared with blood and sand:
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone!
Can that be haughty Marmion! . . .
Young Blount his armour did uulace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said-By St. George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good night to Marmion.'

'Unnurtur'd Blount!-thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace,' peace!'

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :-

'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!

Redeem my pennon, charge again!
Cry-"Marmion to the rescue!"-Vain!
Last of my race, on battle plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's :-fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring;
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie:
Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down:-my life is reft;—
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,

Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.

Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die.'
They parted, and alone he lay;

Clare drew her from the sight away,

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured,- Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water, from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!'

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quiv'ring aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou!

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;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain wide, Where raged the war, a dark red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark 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. Greg.

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

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