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Or held in Rome republican
The place of Common-councilman.

All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look the peasant see Bethink him of Glendowerdy

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And shun the Spirit's Blasted Tree.'
The Highlander, whose red claymore
The battle turned on Maida's shore,
Will on a Friday morn look pale,
If asked to tell a fairy tale :
He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring;
Invisible to human ken,

He walks among the sons of men.

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchémont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,

A mighty treasure buried lay,

-

Amassed through rapine and through wrong
By the last Lord of Franchémont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,

A huntsman sits its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his bloodhounds lie:
An 't were not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look

As bugle e'er in brake did sound,

Or ever hallooed to a hound.

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To chase the fiend and win the prize
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged necromantic priest;
It is an hundred years at least

Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft the conjurer's words will make
The stubborn demon groan and quake ;
And oft the bands of iron break,

Or bursts one lock that still amain,
Fast as 't is opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell

When Franch'mont locked the treasure cell.
An hundred years are passed and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.

Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say,

Whose gossip history has given

My song the messenger from heaven

That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's king,
Nor less the infernal summoning;

May pass the Monk of Durham's tale,
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail;
May pardon plead for Fordun grave,
Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave.
But why such instances to you,
Who in an instant can renew

Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest,

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While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use ;
Give them the priest's whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three,
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfered gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;
Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can like the owner's self enjoy them?
But, hark! I hear the distant drum !
The day of Flodden Field is come,
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,
And store of literary wealth.

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WHILE great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanor, changed and cold, Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war, He snuffed the battle from afar,

And hopes were none that back again
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England's king in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day, -

While these things were, the mournful Clare
Did in the dame's devotions share;

For the good countess ceaseless prayed
To Heaven and saints her sons to aid,
And with short interval did pass

From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high baronial pride, --
A life both dull and dignified:
Yet, as Lord Marmion nothing pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear

The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

II.

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep

Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,

Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.
Above the rest a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,

Which, mounted, gave you access where

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