The lady of the lake; The lord of the isles; Miscellaneous poems

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Page 74 - But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, . ' How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever ! xvn.
Page 45 - And near, and nearer as they row'd, Distinct the martial ditty flow'd. Song. Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line...
Page 156 - That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread ? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams...
Page 122 - Returned the chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before : " Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.
Page 124 - I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade ; Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death: Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved : Can nought but blood our feud atone ? Are there no means...
Page 62 - The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; Invisible in flecked sky, The lark sent down her revelry ; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; In answer coo'd the cushat dove Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
Page 167 - Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The centre of the glittering ring, — And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!
Page 351 - Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early. Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. 'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me? ' 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' 'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' "The grey-headed sexton, That delves the grave duly.* The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady.
Page 354 - O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
Page 121 - From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; From shingles grey their lances start ; The bracken bush sends forth the dart ; The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand ; And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife.

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