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"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,
That's now denied to me."

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain;
But oft amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again:

For low, when through the vapors dank,
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,
The Palmer welter'd there.

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

[There is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption; and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock; and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's "Fleur d'Epine."]

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's
tower,

To watch her love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashly pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear,
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear,
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd,
She knew, and waved to greet him;
And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.

He came - he pass'd -a heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing —
The castle arch, whose hollow tone

Returns each whisper spoken,

Could scarcely catch the feeble moan, Which told her heart was broken.

REBECCA'S HYMN.
[From Ivanhoe.]

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame By day, along the astonish'd lands

The clouded pillar glided slow; By night Arabia's crimson'd sands

Return'd the fiery column's glow.

Ther, rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice be

tween.

No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone:
Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And THOU hast left them to their

own.

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Ends in some metaphysic dream:
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled;
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame.
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror!
Be thy bright shield the morning's
mirror.

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.

[From the Gaelic.]

[The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the Family Bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favor of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.]

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,

The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth;

To the Chieftain this morning his course who began,

Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.

For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail :

Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,

May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,

Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should boil:

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonail,1

And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

1 Bonail, or Bonailez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast at parting with a friend.

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[SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Ottery Saint Mary in the year 1772, was educated ar Christ's Hospital and Jesus College, Cambridge, and died in 1834, at Highgate, in the house of Mr. Gillman, under whose friendly care he had passed the last eighteen years of his life, during which years he wrote but little. His first volume of poems was published at Bristol in 1796, and in 1798, Wordsworth's famous volume of Lyrical Ballads, to which Coleridge contributed The Ancient Mariner, together with some other pieces. Christabel, after lying long in manuscript, was printed in 1816, three editions of it appearing in one year; and in the next year Coleridge published a collection of his chief poems, under the title of Sibylline Leaves, "in allusion," as he says, to the fragmentary and wildly-scattered state in which they had been long suffered to remain." Α desultory writer both in prose and verse, he published the first really collective edition of his Poetical and Dramatic Works in the year 1828, in three volumes arranged by himself; a third and more complete issue of which, arranged by another hand, appeared in 1834, the year of his death. The latest reprint, with notes and an excellent memoir, and some poems not included in any earlier collection, is founded on that final edition of 1834.]

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THE ANCIENT MARINER AMONG

THE DEAD BODIES OF THE SAILORS.

ALONE, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on the wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my eyes and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and
the sky,

Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reck did they :

The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;

But oh more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that
curse,

And yet I could not die.

THE ANCIENT MARINER FINDS
A VOICE TO BLESS AND PRAY.
BEYOND the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

THE BREEZE AFTER THE CALM.

OH sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!

To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,

I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I woke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs :
I was so light- almost

I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between,

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one
black cloud;

The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:

Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

THE BEST PRAYER.

HE prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

FIRST PART OF CHRISTABEL.

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,

And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock,

Tu-whit! -Tu-whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for
the hour;

Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this

way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
Dreams that made her moan and leap
As on her bed she lay in sleep;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far
away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and
low,

And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest mistletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!

It moaned as near as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.-
On the other side it seems to be
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak

tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at
the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel !
Jesu Maria, shield her well!

She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe

wan,

Her stately neck and arms were bare;

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