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FAIR INES.

RUTH She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened — such a blush In the midst of brown was born Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim: Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks: Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come Share my harvest and my home.

O SAW you not fair Ines?

She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,

And rob the world of rest.
She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast. Oh, turn again, fair ines!

Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalled bright. And blessed will the lover be,

That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side

And whispered thee so near!
Were there no loving dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

Alas, Alas, fair Ines !

She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng.
And some were sad, and felt no mirth,

But only music's wrong,
In sounds that sang, Farewell, farewell

To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its decks,

Nor danced so light before.
Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore;
The smile that blest one lover's heart,

Has broken many more!

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,
With a band of noble gentlemen,

And banners waved before,
And gentle youths and maidens gay-

And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,

•-If it had been no more!

ROBERT POLLOK.

1799-1827. !Born in Renfrewshire, Scotland, 1799: educated for the church, but produced, before he had attained his twenty-sixth year, a very remarkable poem, entitled The Course of Time, which attracted the most unqualified admiration in the religious world. The young poet's constitution was frail, and was undermined by his intense application. He was preparing to start for Italy, but died at Southampton in 1827.) THE GENIUS OF BYRO.V.

It scarce deserved his verse. With Na.

ture's self (The Course of Time.)

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to He touched his harp, and nations

jest heard, entranced.

At will with all her glorious majesty. As some vast river of unfailing source, He laid his hand upon “the Ocean's Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers

mane,” flowed,

And played familiar with his hoary And oped new fountains in the human

locks: heart.

Stood on the Alps, stood on the ApenWhere Fancy halted, weary in her flight, nines, In other men, his, fresh as morning, Aud with the thunder talked as friend rose,

to friend; And soared untrodden heights, and And vove his garland of the lightning's seemed at home,

wing, Where angels bashful looked. Others, In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery though great,

wing, Beneath their argument seemed strug. Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful gling whiles;

God, He from above descending, stooped to Marching upon the storm in vengeance, touch

seemed; The loftiest thought; and proudly | Then turned, and with the grasshopper,

stooped as though

who sung

His evening song beneath his feet, con- But back into his soul retired, alone, versed.

Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contempSuns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his

tuously sisters were;

On hearts and passions prostrate at his Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and

feet. winds, and storms;

So Ocean, from the plains his waves His brothers, younger brothers, whom

had late he scarce

To desolation swept, retired in pride, As equals deemed. All passions of all Exulting in the glory of his might, men,

And seemed to mock the ruin he had The wild and tame, the gentle and se

wrought. vere;

As some fierce comet of tremendous All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and

size, profane;

To which the stars did reverence as it All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity;

passed, All that was hated, and all that was So he, through learning and through dear;

fancy, took All that was hoped, all that was feared, His flights sublime, and on the loftiest by man,

top He tossed about, as tempest-withered Of Fame's dread mountain sat; leaves;

soiled and worn, Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck As if he from the earth had labored he made.

up; With terror now he froze the cowering But, as some bird of heavenly plumage blood,

fair, And now dissolved the heart in tender- He looked, which down from higher ness;

regions came, Yet would not tremble, would not weep And perched it there, to see what lay himself;

beneath.

not

LORD MACAULAY.

1800–1859. [THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, Oct. 25, 1321 and died at Holly Lodge, Campden Hill, Dec. 28, 1859. His Lays of Ancient Rome were pube ished in 1843: other ballads and poems were written from time to time, his earliest published piece, an Epitaph on Henry Martyn, being dated 1812.1

HENRY OF NAVARRE.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from

whom all glories are !
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King

Henry of Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of

music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny

vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle,

proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all

thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be

joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, who wrought thy walls annoy.

and roaring culverin! Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath The fiery Duke is pricking fast across turned the chance of war,

Saint André's plain, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King With all the hireling chivalry of GuelHenry of Navarre.

ders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair Oh! how our hearts were beating, when

gentlemen of France, at the dawn of day

Charge for the Golden Lilies now — We saw the army of the League drawn

upon them with the lance! out in long array;

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a With all its priest-led citizens, and all

thousand spears in rest, its rebel peers,

A thousand knights are pressing close

behind the snow-white crest; And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

And in they burst, and on they rushed, There rode the brood of false Lorraine,

while, like a guiding star, the curses of our land!

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a

helmet of Navarre. truncheon in his hand! And as we looked on them, we thought Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! of Seine's empurpled food,

Mayenne hath turned his rein. And good Coligni's hoary hair all dab- D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The bled with his blood;

Flemish Count is slain. And we cried unto the living God, who

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds rules the fate of war,

before a Biscay gale; To fight for his own holy name, and

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, Henry of Navarre.

and flags, and cloven mail; And then, we thought on vengeance,

and all along our van, The King is come to marshal us, in all

“ Remember St. Bartholomew," was his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume

passed from man to man;

But out spake gentle Henry, “No upon his gallant crest.

Frenchman is my foe: He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

Down, down with every foreigner, but

let your brethren go.” He looked upon the traitors, and his

Oh! was ihere ever such a knight, in glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as

friendship or in war, rolled from wing to wing,

As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the

soldier of Navarre! Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord the King!”

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall

of Lucerne! full well he may,

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for For never saw I promise yet of such a

those who never shall return. bloody fray,

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy MexiPress where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

can pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass And be your oriflamme to-day the hel

for thy poor spearmen's souls ! met of Navarre."

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look

that your arms be bright! Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep to the mingled din

watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant,

our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise,

and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom

all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King

Henry of Navarre !

NASEBY.

O! WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph

from the North, With your hands and your feet, and your

raiment all red? And wherefore do your rou send forth

a joyous shout? And whence are the grapes of the wine

press that ye tread? O! evil was the root, and bitter was the

fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage

that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the

haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew

the saints of God.

For God! for the Cause! for the Church!

for the Laws! For Charles, King of England, and Ru

pert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his

trumpets and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of

Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp

your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes, but to conquer,

or to fall. They are here — they rush on - we are

broken — we are gone Our left is borne before them like stub.

ble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord,

defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name ! and

fight it to the last ! Stout Skippen hath a wound - the cen

tre hath given ground. But hark ! what means this trampling

of horsenen in the rear? What banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he!

thank God! 'tis he, boys ! Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver

is here!

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Their heads are stooping low, their pikas

all in a row: Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a

deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks

of the Accurst, And at a shock have scatter'd the forest

of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe

nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot

on Temple Bar. And he — he turns! he flies! shame to

those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare

not look on war.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his

Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us

for the fight; · When a murmuring sound broke out,

and swell'd into a shout . Among the godless horsemen upon the

tyrant's right.

And hark ! like the roar of the billow

on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charg.

ing line :

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain, and ere

ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make the

quest secure;

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