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Clare drew her from the sight away,
Of all my halls have nurst,
To slake my dying thirst !"
O, woman! in our hours of ease,
To the nigh streamlet ran;
Sees but the dying man.
But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, the dark red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn !-behold her mark
A little fountain cell,
In a stone basin fell.
Who, built, this, cross, and, well.
A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
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,“Speak 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,-
She-died at Holy Isle.”
Would spare me but a day :
Might bribe him for delay.
For that she ever sung, “ In the lost battle borne dovon by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying !"
So the notes rung ;
Oh think on faith and bliss,
But never aught like this.”-
And-STANLEY! was the cry ;-
And fired his glazing eye.
With dying hand, above his head
And shouted “ Victory!
ere the last words of Marmion.
THE GLOVE AND THE LION.
[This right spirited little poem should be recited with vivacity and vim. The whole action of the piece should be as rapid as the feat of the Count in leaping for and regaining the glove.]
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And ’mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for
whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went
with their paws ; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one
another; Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous
smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through
the air : Said Francis, then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're better here
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively
dame, With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always
seemed the same; She thought, “ the Count,my lover, is brave as brave can be, He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for
me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will be
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at
him, and smiled, He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the
place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the laờy's
face. “In faith,” cried Francis,“ rightly done!” and he rose
from where he sat ; “Not love,” quoth he. “but vanity, sets love a task like
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.
[This inspiriting piece should ring out as sharp and decided as the war-call of a trumpet or the crack of a Sharp's rifle. Every sentence should be made to tell-as though you meant not only to drive in the nail, but to clinch it.)
Lay down the axe, fling by the spade:
Leave in its track the toiling plow;
For arms like yours were fitter now;
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The charger on the battle-field.
Our country calls ; away! away!
To where the blood-stream blots the green,
That Time in all his course has seen.
Spring the armed foes that haunt her track ;
Must beat the banded traitors back.
Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,
And moved as soon to fear and flight,
Men of the glade and forest! leave
Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
An iron tempest on the foe;
The arm that lays the panther low.
And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form
A bulwark that no fe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind ; stand in her defense: The blast as soon shall move the rock,
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,
As mighty in your march as they ;
Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye who throng, beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap
On his long murmuring marge of sand,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
A helpless wreck against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold
The grim resolve to guard it well.
Blow after blow, till men shall see
And glorious must their triumph be.