The lay of the last minstrel, a poem (Google eBook)

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Page 169 - BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, $ Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And,...
Page 191 - Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair So still they blaze; when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair.
Page 11 - Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead ; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest.
Page 19 - Ten of them were sheathed in steel, With belted sword, and spur on heel : They quitted not their harness bright, Neither by day, nor yet by night...
Page 15 - Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease Which marks security to please; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brain He tried to tune his harp in vain.
Page 13 - Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye No humbler resting-place was nigh: With hesitating step at last, The embattled portal arch he pass'd, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor.
Page 200 - THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay ? How shall he meet that dreadful day...
Page 106 - Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn ; But that the stream, the wood, the gale, Is vocal with the plaintive wail Of those, who, else forgotten long, Lived in the poet's faithful song, And, with the poet's parting breath, Whose memory feels a second death.
Page 19 - They quitted not their harness bright Neither by day nor yet by night They lay down to rest, With corslet laced, Pillowed on buckler cold and hard ; They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.
Page 191 - Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle.

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