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The loathsome water to his fevered lips;
Helon, arise!"--and he forgot his curse,
Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye, As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore; No followers at his back,-nor in his hand Buckler, or sword, or spear;-yet, if he smiled, A kingly condescension graced his lips, A lion would have crouched-to in bis lair. His garb was simple, and his sandals worn: His stature modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance the impress of a God, Touched with the opening innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. -He looked on Helon earnestly a while, As if his heart were moved; and, stooping down, He took a little water in his hand, And laid it on his brow, and said, “ Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him; and his blood, Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins ;
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
XXXII.-THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell.-
Did ye not hear it? No: 'twas but the wind,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
A ball was given in Brussels the night before the battle of Quatre Bras.
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,
And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering” rose !
The stirring memory of a thousand years : And Evan's, Donald's" fame, rings in each clansman's ears ! 1 He fell at Quatre Bras. 2 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant, Donald.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Which her own clay shall cover-heaped and pent;
XXXIII.—THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
(SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.) COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; ’tis at a white heat
now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the
forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking
round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound
heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright,-0 Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, tis blasting bright, the high sun shines
not so ! The high sun sees not on the earth such fiery, fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the
foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster
slow Sinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow“ Hurrah !" they shout, “leap out—leap out:" bang, bang,
the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders
strow The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains
flow; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke,
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the
chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains; And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky
high, Then moves his head, as though he said, “ Fear nothing
here am I!” Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's
chime ! But, while ye swing your sledges, siny; and let the burden be, The Anchor the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we;