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Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.

High o'er the sinner's humbled head

At length the solemn silence broke ;
And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.

Oppressor of creation fair !.

Apostate spirits' hardened tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased forever through the wood;
Forever roam the affrighted wild :
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is his child."

'Twas hushed: one flash, of sombre glare,
With yellow tinged the forest brown :
Up rose the wildgrave's bristling hair,
And horror chilled each nerve and bone.

Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing ;
And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call! Her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell :
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless wo ;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, "Hark away, and holla, ho!"

With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind, he marks the throng;
With bloody fangs, and eager cry,

In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end:
By day they scour earth's caverned space,
At midnight's witching hour ascend.

This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appalled he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human wo,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of "Holla, ho!"

Lochinvar.

YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west;

O, Through all the wide border his steed was the best;

And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river, where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;
Then spoke 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,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet—the knight took it up;
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar-
"Now, tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'T were 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 croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

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She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

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 Lea,
But the lost bride 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 ?
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Christabel.

PART I.

IS the middle of night by the castle clock,

'TIS

And the owls have awakened the crowing cock :
-Tu-whoo!

Tu-whit!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,

How drowsily it crew!

Sir Leoline, the baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff, which

From her kennel beneath the rock

Maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;

Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over-loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers, but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray :

'Tis a month before the month of May,

And the spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late,

A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;

And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel !

It moaned as near as near could be,
But what it is she cannot tell.
On the other side, it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel !

Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

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