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SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.

"Now bless'd be the moment, the messenger be And now must the faith of my mistress be shown

blest!

Much honor'd do I hold me in my lady's high behest!
And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed
dress'd,

To the best arm'd champion I will not veil my
crest;

Must avouch his true service in front of the sun.
For she who prompts knights on such danger to run

"I restore,' says my master, the garment I've

worn,

But if I live and bear me well, 'tis her turn to take For its stains and its rents she should prize it the And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn; the test." Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd of the Bloody Vest.

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more,

with gore." Then deep blush'd the Princess-yet kiss'd she and [press'd The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast. "Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show

If I value the blood on this garment or no.”

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Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he
stood,

Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood:
"The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine,
And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame,
I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its wine;
Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and

shame;

And light will she reck of thy prince.lom and rent,
When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent."

(3.)-MOTTOES.
(1.)-CHAP. IX.

Chap. xxvi.

THIS is the Prince of Leeches; fever, plague,
And quit their grasp upon the tortured sinews
Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look on him

Anonymous.

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Must we then sheath our still victorious sword;
Turn back our forward step, which ever trode
O'er foemen's necks the onward path of glory;
Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow,
In God's own house we hung upon our shoulders;
That vow, as unaccomplish'd as the promise
Which village nurses make to still their children,
And after think no more of?-

The Crusade, a Tragedy. (7.)-CHAP. XX.

When beauty leads the lion in her toils,

Such are her charms, he dare not raise his mane,

Far less expand the terror of his fangs,
So great Alcides made his club a distaff,
And spun to please fair Omphalé.

(8.)-CHAP. XXIII.

Anonymous

'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her

hand,

To change the face of the mysterious land;

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cumulation of books and MSS. was at once flatterang and alarming; and one of his notes to me, about the middle of June, had these rhymes by way of postscript:—

When with Poetry dealing
Room enough in a shieling:
Neither cabin nor hovel

Too small for a novel:
Though my back I should rub
On Diogenes' tub,

How my fancy could prance

In a dance of romance!

But my house I must swap

With some Brobdignag chap,

Ere I grapple, God bless me! with Empero

Nap."

Life, vol. vii. p. 391

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Deeds are done on earth,

Which have their punishment ere the earth closes

Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working

Now, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your Of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision,

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Distinct and real, of unearthly being,
All ages witness, that beside the couch
Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost
Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound.
Old Play.

(7.)-CHAP. XVII.

We do that in our zeal,
Our calmer moments are afraid to answer.
Anonymous

(8.)-CHAP. XXIV.

"So much for oblivion, my dear Sir C.; and

The deadliest snakes are those which, twined now, having dismounted from my Pegasus, who is 'mongst flowers, rather spavined, I charge a-foot, like an old dra

Blend their bright coloring with the varied blos- goon as I am," &c. &c.-Life of Scott, vol. ix. p. 165.

soms,

Their fierce eyes glittering like the spangled dew

drop;

In all so like what nature has most harmless,

That sportive innocence, which dreads no danger, from Chronicles of the Canongate

Is poison'd unawares.

Old Play.

1827.

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1 An allusion to the enthusiastic reception of the Duke of Wellington at Sunderland.-ED.

This lay has been set to beautiful music b a lady whose

Ан, poor Louise! the livelong day She roams from cot to castle gay;

composition, to say nothing of her singing, might make any poet proud of his verses, Mrs. Robert Arkwright, born Miss Kemble.

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