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We shall walk to more through the sosten plain
Will the faged beato c'erofread,
We shall stand wo huone by the teething
While the dark crach drwei berhead

He shall part to more in the bound & the rain
bluu th, latt farewell was raid
But ferkeapa I'tholl hurt the tuoi thee ofren
Where the fragwer upher dead

Jean delas



A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and dio;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, A Thing of beauty is a joy forever :

Then go, – but go alone the while, Its loveliness increases ; it will never

Then view St. David's ruined pile ; Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep And, home returning, soothly swear, A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Was never scene so sad and fair ! Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing

The pillared arches were over their head, Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Spreading herbs and flowerets bright Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Glistened with the dew of night; Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all,

But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Then into the night he looked forth; Trees old and young, sprouting a shally boon And red and bright the streamers light For simple sheep; andesuch are daffodils

Were dancing in the glowing north.
With the green world they live in; and clear rills So had he seen, in fair Castile,
That for themselves a cooling covert make

The youth in glittering squadrons start,
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, Sudden the flying jennet wheel,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : And hurl the unexpected dart.
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms He knew, by the streamers that shot so brigh.,
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; That spirits were riding the northern light.
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,

By a steel-clenched postern door, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. They entered now the chancel tall ;


The darkened roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty and light and small ;
The keystone, that locked each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille :

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourished around,
IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

bound. For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven, When the broken arches are black in night, Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

Around the screened altar's pale; When the cold light's uncertain shower And there the dying lamps did burn, Streams on the ruined central tower;

Before thy low and lonely urn, When buttress and buttress, alternately, O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! Seem framed of ebon and ivory ;

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale !


O fading honors of the dead ! O high ambition, lowly laid !

The scouts had parted on their search,

The castle gates were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,

The warder kept his guard ; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border-gathering song.

The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand "Twixt poplars straight the osier wand

In many a freakish knot had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, Showed many a prophet, and many a saint,

Whose image on the glass was dyed ; Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphant Michael brandished,

And trampled the Apostate's pride. The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

A distant trampling sound he hears ; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears,

Beneath a pennon gay ;
A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Like lightning from a summer cloud,
Spurs on his mettled courser proud

Before the dark array.
Beneath the sable palisade,
That closed the castle barricade,

His bugle-horn he blew ;
The warder hasted from the wall,
And warned the captain in the hall,

For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, squire, and seneschal.




[The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between Eng. land and Scotland. The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to have been a place of magnificence as well as strength. Edward I. resided there when he was created uinpire of the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was repeatcdly taken and retaken during the wars between England and Scotland, and, indeed, scarce any happened in which it had not a principal share. Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank which overhangs the river. The ruins of the castle are at present considerable, as well as picturesque They consist of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, and fragments of other edifices cnclosed within an outward wall of great circuit.]

“Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,

Bring pasties of the doe,
And quickly make the entrance free,
And bid my heralds ready be,
And every minstrel sound his glee,

And all our trumpets blow;
And, from the platform, spare ye not
To fire a noble salvo-shot:

Lord Marmion waits below." Then to the castle's lower ward

Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates unbarred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred,

And let the drawbridge fall.

Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone :
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,

Seemed forms of giant height;
Their armor, as it caught the rays,
Flashed back again the western blaze

In lines of dazzling light.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddle-bow;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalworth knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been.
The scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire ;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casque worn bare,
His thick mustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,

But more through toil than age;

St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower,

So heavily it hung.

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