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From lingering pains, or pang intense, Red Fever, spotted Pestilence,

The arrows of thy quiver!

Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway,
And frequent, while in words we pray
Before another throne,
Whate'er of specious form be there,
The secret meaning of the prayer
Is, Ahriman, thine own.

Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form,
Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm,
As Eastern Magi say;

With sentient soul of hate and wrath,
And wings to sweep thy deadly path,
And fangs to tear thy prey?

Or art thou mixed in Nature's source,
An ever-operating force,

Converting good to ill;
An evil principle innate,
Contending with our better fate,
And oh! victorious still?

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Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee,

Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see

His ambition is backed by his hie chivalrie.

'Therefore thus speaks my lady,' the fair page he said,

And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head:

'Fling aside the good armor in which thou art clad,

And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,

For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread: And charge thus attired, in the tournament dread,

And fight, as thy wont is, where most blood is shed,

And bring honor away, or remain with the dead.'

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast,

The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kissed:

'Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest!

Much honored do I hold me in my lady's high behest;

And say unto my lady, in this dear nightweed dressed,

To the best armed champion I will not veil

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Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well,

Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, And 't was he whose sole armor on body and Seemed the weed of a damsel when bound

breast

for her rest.

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One hour with thee! When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain
His labor on the sultry plain;
And more than cave or sheltering bough,
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?
One hour with thee!

One hour with thee! When sun is set,
Oh! what can teach me to forget
The thankless labors of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away;
The increasing wants and lessening gains
The master's pride who scorns my pains?--

IV

One hour with thee!

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LINES TO SIR CUTHBERT
SHARP

Lockhart, in Chapter lxxv. of the Lif writes: Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who had been particularly kind and attentive to Scott when at Sunderland, happened, in writing to him on

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