Could then his direful doom foretell?.
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,*
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.

Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance.
"Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals Scotland's line?"
"The tokens on his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege: I know him well." "And shall the audacious traitor brave The presence where our banners wave?" "So please my liege," said Argentine, "Were he but horsed on steed like mine, To give him fair and knightly chance, I would adventure forth my lance." "In battle-day," the king replied, "Nice tournay rules are set aside.

Still must the rebel dare our wrath? Set on him-sweep him from our path! And, at King Edward's signal, soon Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. Of Hereford's high blood he came, A race renown'd for knightly fame: He burn'd before his monarch's eye To do some deed of chivalry:

He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance, And darted on the Bruce at once.

As motionless as rocks, that bide The wrath of the advancing tide,

* Seat on a horse.

The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye;
The heart had hardly time to think,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came!
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock:
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear.
Onward the baffled warrior bore

His course-but soon his course was o'er!
High in his stirrups stood the king,

And gave
Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd,
Fell that stern dint-the first-the last !-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet-grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse,
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse!
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

his battle-axe the swing:

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

102. OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.

OH! weep for those who wept by Babel's stream,

Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;

Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell!

Mourn where their God hath dwelt, the godless dwell!

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice

The hearts that leapt before its heavenly voice?

Tribes of the wand'ring foot, and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest?
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

LORD BYRON.

ΟΝ

103. CHARLES XII.

[From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.]

what foundation stands the warrior's pride,

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain:
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield;
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain,
"Think nothing gained,” he cries, "till nought remain;
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky."
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realms of frost;
He comes, nor wants nor cold his course delay;
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left a name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

DR. JOHNSON.

104. I WANDERED LONELY.

WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside a lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay

În such a jocund company:

I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

WORDSWORTH.

105. WHAT IS PRAYER?

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire
Utter'd or unexpress'd;

The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.