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gate the poor were waiting ; looking through the iron grating, with that terror in the eye that is only seen in those, who, amid their wants and woes, hear the sound of doors that close, and feet that pass them by: grown familiar with disfavour, grown familiar with the saviour of the bread by which men die ! But to-day,they knew not why,- like the gate of Paradise seemed the Convent-gate to rise ; like a sacrament divine seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying, thinking of the homeless poor, what they suffer and endure; what we see not, what we sie; and the inward Voice was saying,

“Whatsoever thing thou doest to the least of mine and lowest, that thou doest unto me!” 6. Unto Me!” But had the Vision come to him in beggar's clothing, come a mendicant imploring, would he then have knelt adoring, or have listened with derision, and have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, full of troublesome suggestion, as, at length, with hurried pace, towards his cell he turned his face; and beheld the Convent bright with a supernatural light,-like a luminous cloud expanding over floor and wall and ceiling. But he paused, with awe-struck feeling. at the threshold of his door; for the Vision still was standing as he left it there before ; when the Convent-bell appalling, from its belfry calling, calling, summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening, it had waited his return ; and he felt his bosom burn, comprehending all the meaning, when the Blessed Vision said, “ Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled !" XXXVIII–CEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow, ,

Where a king lay stately on his bier in the cburch of Fontevrault.
Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath,

And light as noon's broad light was Aung on the settled face of death :


On the settled face of death a strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, yet it fell still brightest there ; As if each deeply furrowed trace of earthly years to show,

Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe !

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul ; And solemn were the strains they poured through the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword, and the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and hollow pavement rang with a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chant was hushed awhile, as by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle with a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look, on eagle glance and clear ;

But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook when he stood beside the bier ! He stood there still with a drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised ;

For his father lay before him low, it was Caur de Lion gazed !

And silently he strove with the workings of his breast ;

But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed ! And his tears brake forth at last like rain,—men held their breath in awe,

For his face seen by his warrior-train, and he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead, and sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even like lead, pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stooped,—and kissed the frozen cheek, and the heavy hand of clay,

Till bursting words—yet all too weak-gave his soul's passion way.

" Oh father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep ?

Speak to me, father! occe again, I weep,-behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire! were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire! tho hear thee bless thy son.

“Speak to me! mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred !

Hear me, but hear me !—father, chief, my king! I must be heard ! Hushed, hushed,-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not?

When was it thus, woe, woe for all the love my soul forgot!


Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright!

And father, father! but for me, they had not been so white !
I bore thee down, high heart ! at last, no longer couldst thou strive;-

Oh, for one moment of the past, to kneel and say,—forgive !"

“ Thou wert the noblest king on royal thorne ere seen;

And thou didst wear in knightly ring, of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, in war the bravest heart, -

Oh, ever the renowned and loved thou wert,—and there thou art !

“ Though that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be !

The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent knee ! And there before the blessed shrine, my sire! I see thee lie,

How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I die!"




LONE, through gloomy forest shades, a Soldier went by night,

No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light. Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed ; Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast.

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour ?—In his far home perchange-
His father's hall—his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France.
Hush ! hark! did stealing steps go by ? came not faint whispers near ?
No !—the wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere.

Hark! yet again !—and from his hand, what grasp hath wrenched the blade ?
Oh, single 'midst a hostile band young Soldier, thou'rt betrayed !
“Silence !” in under-tones they cry; “No whisper—not a breath !
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death !"


Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow;
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, “Arm ! arm !-Auvergne !-the foe!”
The stir--the tramp—the bugle-call-he heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all—"Auvergne! Auvergne ! the foe!"


YONDER is a little drum, hanging on the wall;

Dusty wreaths, and tattered flags, round about it fall,
A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills, watched the sheep whose skin
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din.

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Oh, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
And pleasant 'tis, among its heath, to make your summer bed ;
And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its vales,
And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales.
And thus has felt the Shepherd-boy whilst tending of his fold;
No thought there was, in all the world, a spot like Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day !- but change with time will come ;
And he—(alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum !
“Follow," said the drummer-boy, “would you live in story!
For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory.'
“Rub-a-dub!” and “rub-a-dub!" the drummer beats away-
The shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er cheviot wildly stray.


On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the sheperd now is lying :
Around him many a parching tongue for “Water !”' faintly crying:
Oh, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed ;
Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales,
Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales !


At length, upon his wearied eyes, the mists of slumber come,
And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum !
"Take arms! take arms ;'' his leader cries, “the hated foeman's nigh !"
Guns loudly roar-steel clangs on steel, and thousands fall to die.
The shepherd's blood makes red the sand : “Oh! water-give me some !"
My voice might reach a friendly ear—but for that little drum !"

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his way,
And many a one by “glory” lured did curse the drum that day.
"Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beat aloud-
The shepherd died ! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud.
-And this is “Glory ?”'-Yes į and still will man the tempter follow,

Nor learn that glory, like its drum, is but a sound--and hollow !


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Could then his direful doom foretell !
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.
Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flashed, at sight of shield and lance.
"Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals thus their line ?"-
“The tokens on his helmet tell
The Bruce, my liege; I know him well.'
“And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners wave?"
“So please my liege," said Argentine,
“Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightly chance,
I would adventure forth my lance."
“In battle-day,” the king replied,
“Nice tourney rules are set aside.
Still must the revel dare our wrath ?
Set on him—sweep him from our path !"
And, at King Edward's signal soon
Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.
He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.
-As motionless as rocks that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,
The Bruce stood fast.—Each breast beat high,
And dazzled with each gazing eye.
The heart had hardly time to shrink,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of fame,
Spurred to full speed the war horse came!
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock!
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shuns the spear.
Onward the baffled warrior bore
His course—but soon his course was o'er
High in his stirrups stood the king,

his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint- the first-the last !-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse-
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse !
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

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