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Wielding unhallowed arms 'twas his to fall:
'Twas his in death his country's laws to break.

'One word, one careless word, escaped his tongue;

One careless word, from guile, from anger free. Blood, blood must cleanse the unsuspected wrong—

Meet on the heath, beside the lonely tree'—

'So spake the foe; nor, parting, did he hide
The muttered threat, nor glance of scorn behind.

Too well my friend the glance of scorn descried;
And thus explored his own uncertain mind.

'What shall I do? custom! thy tyrant sway,
To laws of earth or heaven untaught to yield,

And thine, whose nod the brave, the base, obey,
Ideal honour! urge me to the field.

'That field perchance consigns thee to the dead,

Affection cries, forbear, forbear the strife; Think on thy childless mother's hoary head:

Think on thy orphan babes, thy widowed wife!

. . . i .1 r,

1 Yes, throbs of nature I through my inmost soul,

From nerve to nerve your strong vibrations dart— Hark, duty speaks—Rebellious pride control,

And bow to heaven's behest the swelling heart.

'What though, be witness heaven! nor vengeful haie

Nor hostile rage within my bosom burn: How can I guiltless tread the brink of fate,

And dare the grief from whence is no return?

'Though from his breast who braves me to the fight, Guarding my own, my sword aloof I wave;

What praise, while yet against his lawless might
I stake the sacred trust my Maker gave?

'How mid assembled angels shall I dare

For judgment throned the Son of God to see;

Afraid for him the sting of scorn to bear,

Who bore the sting of scorn and death for me?

'And is it then so deep a crime to die,

Shielding from taint my yet unspotted name ?—

Away, vain sophistry! a Christian I,
And fear at duty's call to risk my fame?

. Yet how, proud foe, thy cold insulting eye,
Shunning the offered combat, shall I face?

Vhere hide my head while slander's envious cry,
Roused at thy bidding, trumpets my disgrace i

'My native woodlands shall I seek, the sneer
Even in their shades on every brow to meet?

Or haunt the town, in every wind to hear

'There skulks the coward,' murmur through the street?

'What, live to infamy, of fools the scorn,
The dastard's butt, the bye-word of the brave?

No: farewell doubt!'—Beneath the waving thorn,
Go, learn his fate at yonder nameless grave.

i. . ... . i... i

'Stranger! if trials like to his are thine,
Hark to the voice that whispers from his sod.

Shame dost thou dread? the shame of sin decline:
Talk'st thou of valour? dare to fear thy God.'

Gisborne.

EPITAPH,

By LADY FRANCES SCOTT, now LADY DOUGLAS,

On a Skeleton found in Dalkeith Park, at the time when the Duke of Buccleugh was raising his Fencible Regiment.

Reader! the mortal part is here interred

Of one whose name the poet never heard;

Thou mayest indulge imagination here,

And shed for fancied woes a generous tealr. i

If emulation ever fill thy mind,

Deem him a warrior of the bravest kind,

Stranger to fear—whom death alone could tame,
Enlist thyself, and emulate his fam*.
If thou'rt a patriot; if it were thy fate
To fall like Cato, with a falling state,
Reused by the thought, exert thy firmest power,
Britain to save in this her luckless hour.
If love alone has taught thy heart to heave,
For such a state, what will you not l>elieve?
You will conclude her loved, but loved in vain,
Forbid alike to hope, and to complain.
Whate'er he was, whate'er thou mayest be,
Peace to his ashes, peace be unto thee.

LINES*
By Lady Douglas, as descriptive of herself.

When the sun shines out bright,
I am merry and light,

I laugh and I talk like a fool:
Then wise folks think I am mad,
And can never be sad,

I am wild as a boy broke from school.

Next comes a cloudy, chilly, stormy day,
The clouds hang low, and I'm as dark as they;
Through a dark mist all earthly joys I see,
And think, at least, they are not made for me.

Then rectify, O heaven! my wavering mind,
Let it not be the sport of every wind;
Teach me content—I know not how to pray,
Let me be blest,—heaven only knows the way.

MADELINE.

My child, my child, thou leav'st me !—I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear
With its first utterance:—I shall miss the sound
Of thy light footstep, 'midst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at evening's close,
And thy ' good-night,' at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Among their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child I—and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shall watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France

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