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The centre of the glittering ring.

And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!
As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,

Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;
No word her choking voice commands,-
She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her hands.
O! not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd :-
"Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask nought for Douglas; yester even,

His prince and he have much forgiven. Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.

We would not, to the vulgar crowd,

Yield what they craved with clamour loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.

I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn,
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid."

EPILOGUE.

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel harp!

Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,

And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell—
And now, 'tis silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee well!

M

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THE BRITISH ARMY AT WATERLOO.

A VARIOUS host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown,
And hers their scorn of death in freedom's cause
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,

And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, And freeborn thoughts, which league the Soldier with the Laws.

And, O! loved warriors of the Minstrel's land!

Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!

The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave, As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset staid!

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings, And moves to death with military glee:

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,

In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough nature's children, humorous as she

And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest tone. Of thy bold harp, green Isle !-the Hero is thine own

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