" Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling range "Yon summit (crown'd with ruin'd battlements "The fruits of civil discord), to the din "The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile, " All join their yell-the song is war and death"There will be work anon.".

-" Call armourers, ho!

" Furbish my vizor-close my rivets up" I brook no dallying".

-" Soft, my hasty friend,"

Said the black beaver, " Neither of us twain " Shall share the bloody toil-War-worn am I, " Bor'd by a happier mace, I let in fate " To my once master, since unsought, unus'd, " Pensile I'm fix'd-yet too your gaudy pride "Has nought to boast, the fashion of the fight " Has thrown your gilt and shady plumes aside " For modern foppery;-still do not frown, " Nor lower indignantly your steely brows, "We've comfort left enough-The bookman's lore " Shall trace our sometime merit;-in the eye " Of antiquary taste we long shall shine: " And as the scholar marks our rugged front, " He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt: "Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers, " He'll venerate their shell.-Yet, more than this, " From our inactive station we shall hear

"The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints " Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls ; " Already hov'ring o'er the threaten'd lands

:

" The famish'd raven snuffs the promis'd feast, "And hoarslier croaks for blood-'twill flow."

-"Forbid it, heaven!

"O shield my suffering country!-Shield it," pray'd The agonizing priest.

THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar
Distant down the hollow wind;

Panting terror fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend curs'd the sunken day,

That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While, scarcely lighting to the prey,

Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon.

The field, so late the hero's pride,

Was now with various carnage spread;

And floated with a crimson tide,

That drench'd the dying and the dead.

O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, sorrow's early child;

7

By duty led, for every vein

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame; With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.

For well she thought, a friend so dear
In darkest hours might joy impart;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or sooth her bleeding warrior's smart.

Though look'd for long-in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye)
She heard the signal for the fight-
While her soul trembled in a sigh-

She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confest-
Then broke the charm, and rush'd away.

Too soon in few-but deadly words,
Some flying straggler breath'd to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.

She prest to hear-she caught the tale-
At every sound her blood congeal'd;-
With terror bold-with terror pale,
She sprung to search the fatal field.

O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gazeAnd turn'd her ear to many a groan.

Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.

Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled-
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,

And gor'd with many a grisly wound.

She knew-she sunk-the night-bird scream'd, -The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair,-though fall'n she seem'dTo worse than death-and deepest night.

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE.

BORN 1723.-DIED 1780.

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way,
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,