The last spared fragment of a spacious land THE storm increases: 'tis no sunny shower, Foster'd in the moist breast of March or April, Or such as parched Summer cools his lip with; Heaven's windows are flung wide; the inmost deeps Call in hoarse greeting one upon another; On comes the flood in all its foaming horrors, And where's the dike shall stop it! The Deluge, a Poem. Chap. v. VAIN man! thou mayst esteem thy love as fair As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. She may be all that's matchless in her person, And all-divine in soul to match her body; But take this from me-thou shalt never call her That in some grand and awful minis- Superior to her sex while one survives, tration Of mighty nature has engulfèd been, Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs O'er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns In lonely majesty. And I am her true votary. Chap. vi. Old Play. BETWEEN the foaming jaws of the white torrent Constantine Paleologus, Scene I. The skilful artist draws a sudden Chap. II. HERE, youth, thy foot unbrace, Here, youth, thy brow unbraid; Each tribute that may grace The threshold here be paid. Walk with the stealthy pace Which Nature teaches deer, The hunter's horn they hear. Chap. III. mound; By level long he subdivides their WHERE is he? Has the deep earth swallow'd him? CRY the wild war-note, let the champions pass; Do bravely each, and God defend the right. Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus cry, And thrice they shout on height, Or hath he melted like some airy And then match'd them on phantom That shuns the approach of morn and the young sun? Or hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian darkness, And pass'd beyond the circuit of the sight With things of the night's shadows? Anonymous. the Saint George the bright, our ladies' knight, To name they were full fain; Our Englishmen they cried on height, END OF POETRY AND VERSE FROM THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. Enter SWINTON, followed by REYNALD and others, to whom he speaks as he enters. Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, perhaps― VIP. (unclosing his helmet). No; one less worthy of our sacred Order. SWIN. Halt here, and plant my pen- Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd SWIN. Peace, Reynald! Where the general plants the soldier, There is his place of honour, and there only His valour can win worship. Thou 'rt of those Who would have war's deep art bear the wild semblance Of some disorder'd hunting, where, pell-mell, Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are no deer; And England's Edward is no stag at bay. VIP. (advancing.) There needed not, to blazon forth the Swinton, His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak,-nor his proud step, Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous mace, my features Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton Will welcome Symon Vipont. SWIN. (embracing him). As the blithe reaper Welcomes a practised mate, when the ripe harvest Lies deep before him, and the sun is high! Thou 'It follow yon old pennon, wilt thou not? 'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the Boar-heads Look as if brought from off some Christmas board Where knives had notch'd them deeply. VIP. Have with them, ne'ertheless. The Stuart's Chequer, The Bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's Lymphads, Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal Lion, Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from them. We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see round them A chosen band of lances-some well known to me. Where's the main body of thy foilowers? SWIN. Symon de Vipont, thou dost see them all Which only he, of Scotland's realm, That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to can wield: His discipline and wisdom mark the leader, battle, However loud it rings. There's not a boy As doth his frame the champion. Hail, Left in my halls whose arm has Since I left Scotland for the wars of Ill fate, that we should lack the noble Palestine, And then the flower of all the Scottish nobles King And all his champions now Time call'd them not, Were known to me; and I, in my For when I parted hence for Palesdegree, tine The brows of most were free from grizzled hair. PRI. Too true, alas! But well you know, in Scotland Few hairs are silver'd underneath the helmet; 'Tis cowls like mine which hide them. 'Mongst the laity War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his sickle Before the grain is white. In three score years And ten, which I have seen, I have outlived Wellnigh two generations of our nobles. The race which holds yon summit is the third. VIP. Thou mayst outlive them also. PRI. Heaven forfend! My prayer shall be, that Heaven will close my eyes, Before they look upon the wrath to come. VIP. Retire, retire, good Father! Think not on me. Here comes an ancient friend, Brother in arms, with whom to-day I'll join me. Back to your choir, assemble all your brotherhood, And weary Heaven with prayers for victory. PRI. Heaven's blessing rest with thee, Champion of Heaven, And of thy suffering country! [Exit PRIOR. VIPONT draws a little aside and lets down the beaver of his helmet. |