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And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far,

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we

are gone, over bank, bush, and scatur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost ride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

RHOTRUDA.

SCOTT.

IN the golden reign of Charlemagne the king,

The three and thirtieth year, or thereabout,

Young Eginardus, bred about the

court,

(Left mother-naked at a posterndoor,)

Had thence by slow degrees ascended up;

First page, then pensioner, lastly the king's knight

And secretary; yet held these steps for naught

Save as they led him to the Princess' feet,

Eldest and loveliest of the regal three,

Most gracious too, and liable to love: For Bertha was betrothed; and she, the third,

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Yet strong in this, that, let the world have end,

He had pledged his own, and held Rhotruda's troth.

But Love, who had led these lovers thus along,

Played them a trick one windy night and cold:

For Eginardus, as his wont had been,

Crossing the quadrangle, and under dark,

No faint moonshine, nor sign of any star,

Seeking the Princess' door, such welcome found,

The knight forgot his prudence in his love;

For lying at her feet, her hands in his,

And telling tales of knightship and emprise,

And ringing war; while up the smooth white arm

His fingers slid insatiable of touch, The night grew old: still of the herodeeds

That he had seen, he spoke; and bitter blows

Where all the land seemed driven into dust!

Beneath fair Pavia's wall, where Loup beat down

The Longobard, and Charlemagne laid on,

Cleaving horse and rider; then, for dusty drought

Of the fierce tale, he drew her lips to his,

And silence locked the lovers fast and long,

Till the great bell crashed One into their dream.

The castle-bell! and Eginard not away!

With tremulous haste she led him to the door,

When, lo! the courtyard white with fallen snow,

While clear the night hung over it with stars.

A dozen steps, scarce that, to his own door:

A dozen steps? a gulf impassable! What to be done? Their secret

must not lie

Bare to the sneering eye with the first light;

She could not have his footsteps at her door!

Discovery and destruction were at hand:

And, with the thought, they kissed, and kissed again;

When suddenly the lady, bending, drew

Her lover towards her half-unwillingly,

And on her shoulders fairly took him

there,

Who held his breath to lighten all his weight,

And lightly carried him the courtyard's length

To his own door; then, like a frightened hare,

Fled back in her own tracks unto her bower,

To pant awhile, and rest, that all was safe.

But Charlemagne the king, who had risen by night

To look upon memorials, or at

ease

To read and sign an ordinance of the realm,

The Fanolehen, or Cunigosteura For tithing corn, so to confirm the same,

And stamp it with the pommel of his sword,

Hearing their voices in the court below,

Looked from his window, and beheld the pair.

Angry, the king; yet laughing-half to view

The strangeness and vagary of the feat;

Laughing indeed! with twenty minds to call

From his inner bed-chamber the Forty forth,

Who watched all night beside their monarch's bed,

With naked swords and torches in their hands,

And test this lover's-knot with steel and fire;

But with a thought, "To-morrow yet will serve

To greet these mummers," softly the window closed,

And so went back to his corn-tax again.

But, with the morn, the king a meeting called

Of all his lords, courtiers and kin-
dred too,
- in the great

And squire and dame,
Audience Hall

Gathered; where sat the king, with the high crown

Upon his brow; beneath a drapery That fell around him like a cataract, With flecks of colour crossed and can

cellate:

And over this, like trees about a stream,

Rich carven-work, heavy with wreath and rose,

Palm and palmirah, fruit and frondage, hung.

And more the high Hall held of rare and strange;

For on the king's right hand Leæna bowed

In cloudlike marble, and beside her crouched

The tongueless lioness; on the other side,

And poising this, the second Sappho stood,

Young Erexcéa, with her head discrowned,

The anadema on the horn of her lyre;

And by the walls there hung in sequence long

Merlin himself, and Uterpendragon, With all their mighty deeds; down to the day

When all the world seemed lost in wreck and rout,

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"But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee;"

The first line that he read, a low

smile gave he,

The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e;

But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee.

"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;

Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town;"

But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green,

O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there;

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair;

"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she, "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see."

Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie gaed ben,

But red and rosy grew she, whene'er

he sat down;

She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e,

"O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee."

SMITH'S SCOTTISH MINSTREL.

THE GAY GOSS-HAWK.

"O WALY, Waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean!"

"O have ye tint, at tournament,
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?"

"I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"But weel's me on ye, my gay gosshawk,

Ye can baith speak and flee;

Ye sall carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me."

"But how sall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O weel sall ye my true love ken, Sae sune as ye her see;

For, of a' the flowers of fair England,

The fairest flower is she.

“The red, that's on my true love's cheek,

Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white, that is on her breast bare,

Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

"And even at my love's bouer-door
There grows a flowering birk;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.

"And four and twenty fair ladyes
Will to the mass repair;
But weel may ye my ladye ken,
The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love-letter,

Put it under his pinion gray;
And he is awa to southern land
As fast as wings can gae.

And even at the ladve's bouer
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sung thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.

And weel he kent that ladye fair
Amang her maidens free;

For the flower that springs in May morning

Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's gate,
And sat him on a pin;

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,
Till a' was cosh within.

And first he sang a low, low note,
And syne he sang a clear;
And aye the o'erword o' the sang
Was Your love can no win

here."

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