To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! W. Wordsworth. LXXI. YOUNG LOCHINVAR. YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West! [none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. He stayed not for brake and he stopt not for stone; The bride had consented; the gallant came late ; So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among 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, 'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; So stately his form, and so lovely her face, While her mother did fret and her father did fume, One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, [near ; '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 ; Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ! W. Scott. LXXII. AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. T is the spot I came to seek,— My fathers' ancient burial-place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot—I know it well— Of which our old traditions tell. For here the upland bank sends out I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide,- A white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here, I like it not-I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their trunks in grateful shade, K 130 An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers. And then to mark the lord of all, The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare This bank, in which the dead were laid, Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, But now the wheat is green and high The weapons of his rest ; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Ah, little thought the strong and brave That the pale race, who waste us now, They waste us-ay-like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; Towards the setting day,— Till they shall fill the land, and we But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind; Save ruins o'er the region spread, Before these fields were shorn and tilled, The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, Those grateful sounds are heard no more The rivers, by the blackened shore, With lessening current run; The realm our tribes are crushed to get W. C. Bryant. LXXIII. SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR. O horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! the clarion's note is high; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply: Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! White Guy is at the door, And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor. Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair. |