Imatges de pàgina
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Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

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Why not remove it from its lurking place ?"
"Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"GINEVRA."

There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

13.-LOCHINVAR.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

[See p. 409.]

Он, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar !

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

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'Mong bride's men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all! Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his swordFor the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—

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‘O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ?—
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

"I long woo'd
your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !"

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh-
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

!

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered," "Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

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When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar !

14. -VIRGINIA.

LORD MACAULAY.

[See p. 89.]

YE good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true,
Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you,
Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care,
A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear.
This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine,

Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine.
Here, in this very Forum, under the noonday sun,

In sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done.
Old men still creep among us who saw that fearful day,

Just seventy years and seven ago, when the wicked Ten bare sway.

Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed,
And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst.
He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride:
Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side;

The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear
His lowering brow, his curling mouth, which alway seemed to

sneer:

That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred still;
For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill:
Nor lacks he fit attendance; for close behind his heels,
With outstretched chin and crouching pace, the client Marcus steals,
His loins girt up to run with speed, be the errand what it may,
And the smile flickering on his cheek, for aught his lord may say.

Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy sky
Shines out the dewy morning-star, a fair young girl came by,
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or
harm;

And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran,

With bright, frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of

man;

And up the sacred street she turned, and, as she danced along,
She warbled gaily to herself lines of the good old song,
How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp,
And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight lamp.
The maiden sang as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight,
From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning light;
And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young
face,

And loved her with the accursed love of his accursed race,
And all along the Forum, and up the sacred street,

His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing feet.

Virginia.

Over the Alban mountains the light of morning broke;

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From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of

smoke:

The city gates were opened, the Forum all alive

With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive:

Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,
And blithely o'er her panniers the market girl was singing,
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home;
Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome!
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
For she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or
harm.

She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay,

And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when erewhile
He crouched behind his patron's heels with the true client smile:
He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched fist,
And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist.
Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast;
And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;
The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs,
And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares,
And the strong smith, Muræna, grasping a half-forged brand,
And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand,

All came in wrath and wonder; for all knew that fair child;
And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and
smiled;

And the strong smith, Muræna, gave Marcus such a blow,

The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go.
Yet ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,

Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,

Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,

And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast,
And sprang upon that column, by many a minstrel sung,

Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rusting swords are hung,
And beckoned to the people, and in bold voice and clear
Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to
hear.

"Now, by your children's cradles, now by your fathers' graves,
Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!

For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?
For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil seed?
For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?
For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
O! for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will;
Oh! for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill.

In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride;
They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.
But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of threescore years was blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er,
We strove for honours-'twas in vain: for freedom-'tis no more.
No crier to the polling summons the eager throng;

No tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong.

Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath

your will,

Riches, and lands, and power, and state—ye have them :-keep them still.

Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown,

The axes, and the curule chair, the car and laurel crown:

Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,

Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have won.
Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,
Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the

poor.

Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore:
Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;
No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born feet.
Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the gate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate.
But, by the shades beneath us, and by the gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From consuls, and high pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?
Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet,
Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering
street,

Who in Corinthian mirrors, their own proud smiles behold,

And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?
Then leave the poor plebeian his single tie to life-

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,

The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,
The kiss, in which he half forgets e'en such a yoke as yours.

Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride;
Still let the bridegroom's arms infold an unpolluted bride.
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame,

Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,

And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare."

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide,

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