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See here, all 'vantageless I stand,
Armed, like thyself, with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword!"
The Saxon paused:-"I ne'er delayed,
When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death:
Yet, sure, thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved :-
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?"-"No, Stranger, none,
And hear,-to fire thy flagging zeal,-
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
Between the living and the dead,
'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.'”

"Then, by my word," the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff-
There lies Red Murdock, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fate, and not to me.'

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye-
"Soars thy presumption then so high,
Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
He yields not, he, to Man-nor Fate!
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:
My clansman's blood demands revenge!—
Not yet prepared?-Saxon! I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet-knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair."

"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word:
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms. thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, begone!-
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown.
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not-doubt not-which thou wilt
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt!"

Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what he ne'er might see again,

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed!

Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter-shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
"Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."-
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat that guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.-
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!-
They tug, they strain!-down, down, they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's grip his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!—
-But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye!
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

LXIX. THE MOTHER OF THE MACCABEES.-J. J. Callanan.

THAT mother viewed the scene of blood;
Her six unconquered sons were gone:
Fearless she viewed ;-beside her stood
Her last-her youngest-dearest one!
He looked upon her and he smiled;
Oh! will she save that only child?

"By all my love, my son," she said,

"The breast that nursed,—the womb that bore

The unsleeping care that watched thee,-fed,—
"Till manhood's years required no more;

By all I've wept and prayed for thee,

Now, now, be firm, and pity me!

"Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven,
With its high field of azure light;
Look on this earth, to mankind given,
Arrayed in beauty and in might;
And think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer,
On Him who said it-and they were!

"So shalt thou not this tyrant fear,

Nor recreant, shun the glorious strife;
Behold! thy battle-field is near;

Then go, my son, nor heed thy life;
Go, like thy faithful brothers die,-
That I may meet you all on high!”

Like arrow from the bended bow

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He sprang upon the bloody pile ;-
Like sun-rise on the morning's snow,
Was that heroic mother's smile.
He died-nor feared the tyrant's nod-
For Judah's law and Judah's God.

LXX.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.-Thomas Moore.
In vain all the Knights of the Underwald woo'd her,
Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid so excelling,
"That knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;
He must place me in hall fit for monarchs to dwell in ;-
None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!"

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree,
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipped at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His vizor was down-but, with voice that thrilled through her,
He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;
Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
And mine thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"
The maiden she smiled and in jewels arrayed her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.
"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me?
Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress-tree;
Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me ?"
With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye.
""Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures,"-
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;

But she sunk on the ground-'twas a skeleton's features
-And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

LXXI. THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.-M. G. Lewis,
STAY, gaoler! stay, and hear my woe!
He is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,

And what I was-and what should be!

I'll rave no more in proud despair-
My language shall be mild, though sad,
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad! I am not mad!

My tyrant foes have forged the tale,

Which chains me in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown my friends bewail-
Oh! gaoler, haste that fate to tell!
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer,
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad,
To know, though chained a captive here,
I am not mad! I am not mad!

He smiles in scorn-he turns the key

He quits the grate-I knelt in vain!
His glimmering lamp still, still I see-
"Tis gone-and all is gloom again!
Cold, bitter cold!-no warmth, no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had!
Yet here I'm chained this freezing night,
Although not mad! no, no-not mad!
'Tis sure some dream-some vision vain!
What! I-the child of rank and wealth-
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head,
But 'tis not mad! it is not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot e'er this
A parent's face, a parent's tongue?
I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss,

Nor round my neck how fast you clung!
Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit my foes forbade;
Nor how-I'll drive such thoughts away-
They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!
Thy rosy lips how sweet they smiled!

Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None ever saw a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free!-Unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad!

Oh, hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks!
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes!
Help! help!-he's gone!-
-O fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain! I know, I know
I am not mad-but soon shall be !

Yes, soon! for, lo now, while I speak,

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad!
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth!

Your task is done-I'm mad! I'm mad!

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WHEN the British warrior-queen, bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods,
Sage, beneath a spreading oak, sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke, full of rage, and full of grief.
Princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish! write that word in the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin, as in guilt!
Rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
-Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame!
Then, the progeny that springs from the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew, thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they!"

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