And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, Was no more than his due who brought good news from Robert Browning. * 142 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West! He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone; The bride had consented; the gallant came late; Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;— Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar ?” "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; The bride kissed the the goblet, the knight took it up, So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 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, "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur, They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? .143. Walter Scott. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread, The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle, and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William C. Bryant. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that! Our toil's obscure, and a' that; What tho' on hamely fare we dine, For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that, The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, A king can mak' a belted knight, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o sense and pride o' worth Then let us pray that come it may,— That sense and worth o'er a' the earth, It's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that! Stern daughter of the voice of God! And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth O, if through confidence misplaced, They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power around them cast. |