fell,

From the Abbot.

1820.

MOTTOES.

CHAP. V. -IN the wild storm,

And win the bliss the sprite himself had forfeited.-Old Play.

merchant

Heaves to the billows wares he once deem'd precious:

So prince and peer, 'mid popular conten. tions,

Cast off their favourites.—Old Play.

CHAP. XXX.

From Kenilworth.

1821.

GOLDTHRED'S SONG.

Of all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be

To those the cup that trowl.
For when the sun hath left the west,
He chooses the tree that he loves the best,
And he whoops out his song, and he
laughs at his jest.

Then, though hours be late, and weather foul,

We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,

He sleeps in his nest till morn; But my blessing upon the jolly owl, That all night blows his horn. Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech,

And match me this catch, till you swagger and screech,

And drink till you wink, my merry men cách;

For, though hours be late, and weather be foul,

We'll drink to the health of the bonny,

bonny owl.-Chap. ii.

MOTTOES.

CHAP. IV.

will try it

511

Now God be good to me in this wild pilgrimage!

All hope in human aid I cast behind me. Oh, who would be a woman? who that fool,

A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman? She hath hard measure still where she hopes kindest,

And all her bounties only make ingrates. Love's Pilgrimage.

CHAP. XXV.

Hark! the bells summon, and the bugle calls,

But she the fairest answers not; the tide

which in the gleam

Of yon gay meteors lost that better sense, That o'er the glow-worm doth the star esteem,

And merit's modest blush o'er courtly insolence?-The Glass Slipper.

to madness,

Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scatterer of navies,

Amidst the scream of thy rage,
Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings,
Though thy scream be loud as the cry

of a perishing nation,

Though the rushing of thy wings be like
the roar of ten thousand waves,
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste,
Hear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar.

II.

Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim,

Their dark green heads lie prostrate beside their uprooted stems; Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, The tall, the strong bark of the fearless rover,

That she had not vail'd to a royal armada. And she has struck to thee the topsal

Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest among the clouds,

The battled massive tower of the Jarl of former days,

And the cope-stone of the turret
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth;
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compellet
of clouds,

When thou hearest the voice of the
Reim-kennar.