"De Bruce! De Bruce!"-Yon silver star that shines in heaven so sweet- The lonely Orr--the good greenwood-the sod aneath our feet- "De Bruce! De Bruce!"--on Dee's wild banks, and on Orr's silver side, Far other sounds are echoing now than war-shouts answering wide: LXXVIII. THE RUINED COTTAGE.-Mrs. Maclean. NONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say oppression reft it from an honest man, and that a curse clings to it: hence the vine trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground; hence weeds are in that garden; hence the hedge, once sweet with honeysuckle, is half dead; and hence the grey moss on the apple tree. One once dwelt there, who had been in his youth a Soldier; and when many years had passed, he sought his native village, and sat down to end his days in peace. He had one child-a little laughing thing, whose large dark eyes, he said, were like the mother's he had left buried in strangers' land. And time went on in comfort and content:-and that fair girl had grown far taller than the red-rose tree her father planted on her first English birth-day: and he had trained it up against an ash till it became his pride;-it was so rich in blossom and in beauty, it was called the tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal to all the better feelings of the heart, to mark their quiet happiness; their home-in truth a home of love; and more than all, to see them on the Sabbath, when they came among the first to church, and Isabel, with her bright colour and her clear glad eyes, bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer; and in the hymn her sweet voice audible: her father looked so fond of her, and then from her looked up so thankfully to Heaven! And their small cottage was so very neat; their garden filled with fruits, and herbs, and flowers; and in the winter there was no fireside so cheerful as their own. But other days and other fortunes came an evil power! They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped for better times, but ruin came at last; and the old Soldier left his own dear home, and left it for a prison! 'Twas in June, one of June's brightest days: -the bee, the bird, the butterfly, were on their lightest wing; the fruits had their first tinge of summer light; the sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad, and the old man looked back upon his cottage, and he wept aloud. They hurried him away, from the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven and the green trees, into a low, dark cell, the windows shutting out the blessed sun with iron grating; and for the first time he threw him on his bed, and could not hear his Isabel's good night! But the next morn she was the earliest at the prison gate, the last on whom it closed; and her sweet voice and sweeter smile made him forget to pine. She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers; but every morning could he mark her cheek grow paler and more pale, and her low tones get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew was on the hand he held. One day, he saw the sunshine through the grating of his cell-yet Isabel came not; at every sound his heart-beat took away his breath-yet still she came not near him! But one sad day he marked the dull street through the iron bars that shut him from the world; at length he saw a coffin carried carelessly along, and he grew desperate he forced the bars, and he stood on the street free and alone! he had no aim, no wish for liberty-he only felt one want, to see the corpse that had no mourners. When they set it down, ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, a rush of passion came upon his soul, and he tore off the lid--and saw the face of Isabel, and knew he had no child!-he lay down by the coffin quietly -his heart was broken! LXXIX. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.-Lord Byron. ALAS! It is a fearful thing to see the human soul take wing in any shape, in any mood:-I've seen it rushing forth in blood; I've seen it on the breaking ocean, strive with a swoln convulsive motion; I've seen the sick and ghastly bed of Sin, delirious with its dread: but these were horrors; this was woe unmixed with such--but sure and slow. He faded, and so calm and meek, so softly worn, so sweetly weak, so tearless, yet so tender-kind, and grieved for those he left behind; with all the while a cheek whose bloom was as a mockery of the tomb,-whose tints as gently sunk away as a departing rainbow's ray; an eye of most transparent light, that almost made the dungeon bright; and not a word of murmur-not a groan o'er his untimely lot; a little talk of better days, a little hope my own to raise, for I was sunk in silence-lost in this last loss, of all the most; and then the sighs he would suppress of fainting nature's feebleness, more slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listened, but I could not hear I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread would not be thus admonishèd; I called, and thought I heard a sound. I burst my chain with one strong bound, and rushed to him :-I found him not! I only stirred in this black spot-I only lived-I only drew the accursed breath of dungeon-dew! The lastthe sole the dearest link between me and the eternal brink, which bound me to my failing race, was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath!-my brothers--both had ceased to breathe! I took that hand which lay so still-alas! my own was full as chill! I had not strength to stir, or strive, but felt that I was still alive-a frantic feeling, when we know that what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die! I had no earthly hope--but faith, and that forbade a selfish death.-- -What next befel me then and there, I know not well-I never knew :--first, came the loss of light and air, and then, of darkness too; I had no thought, no feelingnone:--among the stones I stood a stone. A light broke in upon my brain-it was the carol of a bird; it ceased-and then it came again--the sweetest song ear ever heard! and mine was thankful, till my eyes ran over with the glad surprise; and they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery: but then, by dull degrees, came back my senses to their wonted track; I saw the dungeon walls and floor close slowly round me as before-I saw the glimmer of the sun creeping as it before had done:-but through the crevice where it came, that bird was perched!-as fond and tame, and tamer than upon the tree; a lovely bird with azure wings, and song that said a thousand things, and seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: it seemed like me to want a mate, but was not half so desolate; and it was come to love me, when none lived to love me so again; and cheering from my dungeon's brink, had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, or broke its cage to perch on mine; but knowing well captivity, sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in winged guise, a visitant from Paradise; for--Heaven forgive that thought! the while which made me both to weep and smile I sometimes deemed that it might be my brother's soul come down to me: But then at last away it flew, and then 'twas mortal-well I knew! for he would never thus have flown, and left me twice so doubly lone: -lone, as the corse within its shroud; lone, as a solitary cloud; a single cloud on a sunny day, while all the rest of heaven is clear;frown upon the atmosphere, that has no business to appear when skies are blue and earth is gay. LXXX.-BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD, AND DEATH OF MARMION.Scott. BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still with Lady Clare upon the hill; on which (for far the day was spent), the western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard its meaning knew, could plain their distant comrades view. * * * * But lo! straight up the hill there rode two horsemen, drenched with gore; and in their arms, a helpless load, a wounded Knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; his arms were smeared with blood and sand; dragged from among the horses' feet, with dinted shield, and helmet beat the falcon-crest and plumage gone- -can that be haughty Marmion! When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:-"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? Redeem my pennon,-charge again! Cry-Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain !-last of my race, on battle-plain that shout shall ne'er be heard again!-Yet my last thought is England's :-fly-to Dacre bear my signet-ring, tell him his squadrons up to bring; FitzEustace, to Lord Surrey hie! Tunstall lies dead upon the field; his life-blood stains the spotless shield: Edmund is down-my life i reft! the Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur o fire, with Chester charge, and Lancashire, full upon Scotland's cen tral host, or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets, fly! leave Marmion here alone to die." They parted-and alone he lay: Clare drew her from the sight away, till pain wrung forth a lowly moan; and half he murmured,. "Is there none, of all my halls have nursed, page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring of blessed water, from the spring, to slake my dying thirst ?" O woman! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please; and variable as the shade by the light quivering aspen made; when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!-Scarce were the piteous accents said, when, with the Baron's casque, the maid to the nigh streamlet ran: forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears the plaintive voice alone she hears, sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, but in abhorrence backward drew; for, oozing from the mountain-side, where raged the war, a dark red tide was curdling in the streamlet blue! Where shall she turn?-Behold her mark a little fountain cell, where water, clear as diamond spark, in a stone basin fell. She filled the helm, and back she hied,--and, with surprise and joy, espied a Monk, supporting Marmion's head; a pious man, whom duty brought to dubious verge of battle fought, to shrive the dying, bless the dead. 66 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, and as she stooped his brow to lave "Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose, Talk not to me of shrift or prayer, I must redress her woes! Short space, few words, are mine to spare!-Forgive !-and listen, gentle Clare!" "Alas!" she said, the while; "O think of your immortal weal! in vain for Constance is your zeal--she died at Holy Isle!" Lord Marmion started from the ground, as light as though he felt no wound; though in the action burst the tide in torrents from his wounded side! Then it was truth!" he said:--"I knew that the dark presage must be true! I would the Fiend, to whom belongs the vengeance due to all her wrongs, would spare me but a day! for, wasting fire, and dying groan, and priests slain on the altar-stone, might bribe him for delay. It may not be--this dizzy trance!--Curse on yon base marauder's lance! and doubly curs'd my failing brand!--a sinful heart makes feeble hand!" Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, supported by the trembling Monk. With fruitless labour Clara bound, and strove to stanch the gushing wound: the Monk, with unavailing cares, exhausted all the Church's prayers: ever, he said, that, close and near, a Lady's voice was in his ear, and that the Priest he could not hear, for that she ever sung,-"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle, with groans of the dying!" so the notes rung.-"Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, shake not the dying sinner's sand! O! look, my son, upon yon sign of the Redeemer's grace divine! O! think on faith and bliss!-By many a death-bed I have been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never aught like this!". The war, that for a space did fail, now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale, and-" Stanley!" was the cry:--a light on Marmion's visage spread, and fired his glazing eye; with dying hand, above his head he shook the fragment of his blade, and shouted Victory!--Charge! Chester, charge! On!--Stanley ! --on!" were the last words of Marmion. LXXXI.-MARY THE MAID OF THE INN.-Southey. WHO is she the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; she never complains, but her silence implies the composure of settled distress. No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek, cold and hunger awake not her care; through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak on her poor withered bosom, half bare; and her cheek has the deadly, pale hue of despair. Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day), poor Mary the Maniac hath been; the traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, no damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, as Mary, the Maid of the Inn. cheerful address filled the guests with delight, as she welcomed them in with a smile; her heart was a stranger to childish affright; and Mary would walk by the Abbey at night, when the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, and she hoped to be happy for life; but Richard was idle and worthless, and they who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say, that she was too good for his wife. ་་ Her ""me "Twas in autumn; and stormy and dark was the night, and fast were the windows and door; two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright; and smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, they listened to hear the wind roar. "Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, to hear the wind whistle without." "What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied; thinks a man's courage would now be well tried, who should wander the ruins about. I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear the hoarse ivy shake over my head; and could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear for this wind might awaken the dead!" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, that Mary will venture there now.' "Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, and faint if she saw a white cow.' "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" his companion exclaimed with a smile; I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, and earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough from the elder that grows in the aisle." 66 66 With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, and her way to the Abbey she bent; the night it was gloomy, the wind it was high, and, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, she shivered with cold as she went. O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; through the gateway she entered-she felt not afraid; yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast howled dismally round the old pile; over weed-covered fragments, still fearless, she passed, and arrived at the innermost ruin at last where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, and hastily gathered the bough--when the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear!-she paused--and she listened, all eager to hear-and her heart panted fearfully now! The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head; she listened;-nought else could she hear. The wind ceased:-her heart sank in her bosom with dread, for she heard in the ruins, distinctly, the tread of footsteps approaching her near! Behind a wide |