Fierce he broke forth; "And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hopest thou thence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no !

Up draw-bridge, grooms,-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, grazed his plume.

5. The steed along the draw-bridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise:
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clinchèd hand,
And shout of loud +defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold he can speak, and fairly ride
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

CLXII. THE GRAVE.

FROM IRVING.

1. THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction, to forget; but this wound, we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother, who would willingly

forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of *agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns?

2. No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, sometimes, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet, who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.

3. Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom, spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies *moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved-what a place for meditation! There it is, that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments *lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is, that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities! the last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling,-oh! how thrilling!-pressure of the hand! the last fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence! the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!

4. Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past

benefit unrequited; every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou hast given one unmerited pang to that true heart, which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come. thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking *dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

5. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile *tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

CLXIII. THE PEARL-DIVER.

FROM MRS. HEMANS.

1. THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with teddying waves;
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!

2. Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven!

The deep is a strong and fearful hold,

But thou its bar hast riven!

3. A wild and weary life is thine,

A wasting task and lone;

Though treasure grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown!

4. A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free!

Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou twrestler with the sea!

5. In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read;
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled.

6. And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all the festive hall-
But who shall think on thee?

7. None!—as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one, 'mid throngs, will say,

"A life hath been, like a rain-drop, shed
For that pale, and quivering ray."

8. Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
And are not those like thee,

Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

9. Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below,
From many a buried urn:

10. Wringing from lava-veins the fire
That o'er bright words is poured;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord

11. But O, the price of bitter tears,
Paid for the lonely power,

That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly glorious dower!

12. Like flower-seeds by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strewed;

The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!

13. And who will think, when the strain is sung, Till a thousand hearts are stirred,

What life-drops from the minstrel wrung,
Have gushed with every word?

14. None, none!-his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;

Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!

CLXIV.

ANECDOTE OF THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

A LAUGHABLE story was circulated during the administration of the old Duke of Newcastle, and retailed to the public in various forms. This nobleman, with many good points, was remarkable for being profuse of his promises on all occasions, and valued himself particularly, on being able to anticipate the words or the wants of the various persons who attended his levees, before they uttered a word. This sometimes led him into ridiculous embarrassments; and it was this proneness to lavish promises, which gave occasion for the following anecdote.

1. AT the election of a certain borough in Cornwall, where the opposite interests were almost equally *poised, a single vote was of the highest importance. This object, the Duke by well applied argument and personal application, at length attained; and the gentleman he recommended, gained the election. In the warmth of gratitude, his grace poured forth acknowledgments and promises without ceasing, on the fortunate possessor of the casting vote; called him his best and dearest friend; protested, that he should consider himself as forever indebted to him; that he would serve him by night or by day.

2. The Cornish voter, who was an honest fellow, and would not have thought himself entitled to any reward, but for such a torrent of acknowledgments, thanked the Duke for his kindness, and told him, "The supervisor of excise was old and infirm, and if he would have the goodness to recommend his son-in-law to the commissioners, in case of the old man's death, he should think himself and his family bound to render his grace every assistance in his power, on any future occasion." "My dear friend, why do you ask for such a trifling employment?" exclaimed his grace; "your relative shall have it, the moment the place is vacant, if you will but call my attention to it." "But how shall I get admitted to you, my lord? for in London, I understand, it is a very difficult business to get a sight of you great folks, though you are so kind