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

near; 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; “ They'll have feet steeds that follow," quoth young

Lochinvar, There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby

clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they

ran; There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain, The long remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound :
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung, “In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, “ Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung; Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand, “ Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! "O look, my son, upon yon sign “Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

“O think on faith and bliss ! “By many a death-bed I have been, " And many a sinner's parting seen,

“But never aught like this.". The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,

And-STANLEY! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted “Victory!
Charge, Chester, Charge ! On, Stanley, on !"
Were the last words of Marmion.

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An Eton stripling training for the Law,
A Dunce at Syntax, but a Dab at Taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown, and store of learned pelf,

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his Uncle's home. Arrived, and passed the usual “How d'ye do's," Inquiries of old friends, and College news, 6 Well, Tom-the road, what saw you worth discerning, “ How goes study, boy-what is't you're learning ?" “ Logic, Sir, but not the shallow rules “Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools ! “ 'Tis wits' and wranglers’ Logic !_Thus, d'ye see, I'll prove at once, as plain as A, B, C, " That an eel-pie's a pigeon : - to deny it, " Would be to swear black's white."_" Well come, let's

try it." " An eel-pie is a pie of fish,”-"Agreed." A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie.”_"Well, proceed.”. " A Jack-pie must be a John-pie—thus, 'tis done, " For every John-pie, must be a pie-John!" “ Bravo !” Sir Peter cries, “Logic for ever! "That beats my grandmother--and she was clever ! “But hold, my boy--it surely must be hard, “That wit and learning should meet no reward ! “ To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross, “ And there I'll give you”-“What?” “A chestnut-horse." “A horse !” cries Tom,“ blood, pedigree, and paces, "Oh what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"To bed he went, and wept for downright sorrow, To think the night must pass before the morrow; Dreamt of his boots, and spurs, and leather breeches, His hunting whip, and leaping rails and ditches; Rose in the morn an hour before the lark, Dragged his old Uncle fasting through the park :Each craggy vale he scours, quite at a loss, To find out something like a chestnut-horse; But no such animal the meadow cropt; At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopped ; Caught a bough and shook it, when straight down fell A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell. " There, Tom, take that."-"Well, Sir, and what beside;" « Nay, since you're booted-saddle it, and ride !"

" Ride what ?”—“Why a chestnut-come get across, I tell you, Tom, that chestnut is a horse, “ And all the horse you'll get-for I can plainly show, “ As clear as sunshine, that 'tis even so Not by your musty, fusty, worn-out rules « Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools ! “Of old Malebranche, blind Pilot into knowledge, “ But by the laws of wit and Eton College ; “All Logic !—but the wranglers' I disown, “ And stick to one sound argument-your own. “ That you have proved to me, I don't deny “That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie ! " What follows then, but as a thing of course, “ That a horse-chestnut must be a chestnut-horse ?”

GLENARA. O! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and her people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud : Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar : “ Now here let us place the grey-stone of her cairn

Why speak ye no word !"-said Glenara the stern. “ And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, “Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,” Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; “And empty that shroud, and that coffin, did seem; “Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !"

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