A fever fit, and then a chill; And then an end of human ill: For thou art dead. THE DEATH OF KEELDAR These verses, written in 1828, were published in The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. They accompanied an engraving from a painting by Cooper, suggested by the incident. UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead; The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound, Man, bound, or horse, of higher fame, And right dear friends were they. The chase engrossed their joys and woes. By fountain or by stream; Still hunted in his dream. Now is the thrilling moment near The signs the hunters know: The archer strings his bow. The game's afoot! - Halloo! Halloo! The noble hound - he dies, he dies; Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes; Stiff on the bloody heath he lies Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound, But Keeldar sleeps forever. Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise; But he that bent the fatal bow 'And if it be, the shaft be blessed And And to his last stout Percy rued E'en with his dying voice he cried, Remembrance of the erring bow Long since had joined the tides which flow, Conveying human bliss and woe Down dark oblivion's river; But Art can Time's stern doom arrest THE SECRET TRIBUNAL From Anne of Geierstein, published in 1829. From Chapter xx. 'Philipson could perceive that the lights proceeded from many torches, borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their features. They appeared anxiously engaged in measuring off a portion of the apartment; and, while occupied in that employment, they sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes more rude than Philipson could well understand, but which may be imitated thus:' MEASURERS of good and evil, Bring the square, the line, the level, - Blood both stone and ditch shall drench. On life and soul, on blood and bone, How wears the night? Doth morning shine In early radiance on the Rhine ? The night is old; on Rhine's broad breast No beams are twinkling in the east. Up, then, up! When day 's at rest, "Tis time that such as we are watchers; Rise to judgment, brethren, rise ! Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes, He and night are matchers. THE FORAY Printed in Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830, and set to music by John Whitefield, Mus. Doc. Cam. THE last of our steers on the board has been spread, And the last flask of wine in our goblet is red; Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone, There are dangers to dare and there's spoil to be won. The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers, And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume. The rain is descending; the wind rises loud; And the moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud; 'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber nor dream we are nigh. Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain. The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle. has blown; One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and begone! To their honor and peace that shall rest with the slain; To their health and their glee that see Teviot again! INSCRIPTION FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. GEORGE SCOTT George Scott was the son of Hugh Scott of Harden. He died at Kentisbeare, in Devon shire, where he was rector of the church, in 1830. The verses are on his tomb. To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's rattle, They call us to sport, and they call us to battle; And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats of a stranger, While our comrades in pastime are comrades in danger. If there's mirth in our house, 't is our neighbor that shares it If peril approach, 't is our neighbor that dares it; And when we lead off to the pipe and the tabor, The fair hand we press is the hand of a neighbor. WHEN the tempest 's at the loudest Gnawing want and sickness pining, Bar me from each wonted pleasure, |