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from her untroubled sleep, yout away her soft brown hair,
In a pout
Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
The star of love
the leaves the wind-harp weaves
[The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between Eng. land and Scotland. The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to have been a place of magnificence as well as strength. Edward I. resided there when he was created umpire of the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was repeatedly taken and retaken during the wars between England and Scotland, and, indeed, scarce any happened in which it had not a principal share. Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank. which overhangs the river. The ruins of the castle are at present considerable, as well as picturesque. They consist of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, and fragments of other edifices, enclosed within an outward wall of great circuit.]
A horseman, darting from the crowd,
His bugle-horn he blew ;
For well the blast he knew; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, squire, and seneschal.
"Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
And all our trumpets blow;
Lord Marmion waits below." Then to the castle's lower ward Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates unbarred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred,
And let the drawbridge fall.
Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
Well was he armed from head to heel,
Who checks at me to death is dight.
Behind him rode two gallant squires
Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong,
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
The moon on the east oriel shone
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand "Twixt poplars straight the osier wand
In many a freakish knot had twined;
And trampled the Apostate's pride.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
CHRISTMAS IN OLDEN TIME. HEAP on more wood! - the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer: Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew; Then in his low and pine-built hall, Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone, Or listened all, in grim delight, While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. Then forth in frenzy would they hie, While wildly loose their red locks fly, And dancing round the blazing pile They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recall The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
And well our Christian sires of old
On Christmas eve the bells were rung:
Then opened wide the baron's hall
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord ; Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man ; Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell How, when, and where the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls, There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie, Nor failed old Scotland to produce At such high tide, her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in ; And carols roared with blithesome din, If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White skirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But, oh what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light? England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'T was Christmas broached the mightiest ale! 'T was Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
OFT have I seen, at some cathedral door,
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
How strange the sculptures that adorn these
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine !
And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs
And the melodious bells among the spires
Proclaim the elevation of the Host!
O star of morning and of liberty!
The voices of the mountains and the pines,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
EARTH has not anything to show more fair;
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
And strive to make my steps keep pace with Open unto the fields, and to the sky,