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The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
The grey-haired warden watches on the castle's highest

tower." What news, what news, old Anthony ?"_" The field

is lost and won, The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun ; And a wounded man speeds hither,-- I am old and

cannot see, Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should


“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough

a fray, As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for min

strel's lay, Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum

suff: I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing

out his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful

wife ! “Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship

for France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance; Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope ! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy ! out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston




The men of sin prevail ! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn ; Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne

Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren ? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet ? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,

With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest

Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice; We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts, Will call for comfort ; to the God of hosts

We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song; For we are wandering o'er our native land As sheep that have no shepherd ; and the hand

Of wicked men is strong.

Only to Thee we bow :
Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up

To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge, -oh! not our years Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed, The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,

The maiden's silent tears,

The babe's bread torn away,
The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof,
The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof,

Judge not for these to-day !

Is not Thine own dread rod Mocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned ?

Avenge Thyself, O God !

Break Pharaoh's iron crown ; Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings; Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,

And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in Thine own good time ! We will abide ; we have not turned from Thee, Though in a world of grief our portion be,

Of bitter grief and crime.

Be Thou our guard and guide! Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go, That we may worship where the torrents flow

And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.-
On, brethren, to the mountains ! seek we there

Safe temples, quiet graves !



Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze

In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days

Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear

The perfect grandeur of the shrine ;
But if I stood a stranger here,

The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,

As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt

To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,

Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,

Or the false Prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced

With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner's art hath graced

From the time-honoured stone ?
The Spirit here of worship seems

To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams

Come at her voiceless call ;

At midnight, when the lonely moon

Looks from a vapour's silvery fold ;
At morning, when the sun of June

Crests the high towers with gold ;

For every change of hour and form

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair, And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,

Are all Religion there.


“Oh yes ! he is in Parliament;

He's been returning thanks ;
You can't conceive the time he's spent

Already on his franks.
He'll think of nothing, night and day,

But place, and the Gazette :
No matter what the people say,-

You won't believe them yet.

“ He filled an album, long ago,

With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,

His speeches in the Times :
And liquid tone and beaming brow,

Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He'll care for no such nonsense now :'

Oh! don't believe them yet!

I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,

By that disgusting Bill;
He'll never make another pun;

He's danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again

With any fair coquette ;
He'll never laugh at Drury Lane."--

Psha !--don't believe them yet.

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