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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 be."

"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 minstrel'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 Moor!"

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR
BOTHWELL BRIDGE.

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!

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

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.

ANTICIPATION.

"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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