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The lad with the bonny blue feather Was a page and a gentleman born; But Sir Walter, a Knight of the Garter, Curled his thin lip in anger and scorn. Shall he, who the lion at Bullen

Helped trample the tall fleur-de-lys, Compete for the prize of the jewel

With such a mere stripling as this? "No, no!" cried the crowd of his varlets, Waving with yellow and gold, All shaking their colours and ribbons,

And tossing their banner's fringed fold.

To heighten the insolent clamour,
The drummers beginning to beat,

Bid the trumpet sound quick for the mounting;
Never sound to my ear was so sweet.

For the varlets were flocking round Richard,
To hurry him down from his seat;

I saw him look fierce at the rabble,
Disdaining to back or retreat.

That moment the drums and the trumpets
Made all the proud ears of them ring,
As slowly, his cheek flushed with anger,
Rode into the tilt-yard the King.

Pale grew the lips of the vassals,

Sir Tracey turned colour and frowned; But the people, with scorn of oppression,

Hissed, and the hisses flew round.

Then the King waved his hand as for silence, Stamped loud on the step of his throne, And bade the two rivals together

Dismount, and their errors disown.

"Ah! this page is a rival for any,

And fit to break lance with his king;
Let the gallants first meet in the tourney,
And afterwards ride for the ring."
Dick stood at the feet of the monarch,

And bowed till his plume swept the ground; Then, clapping on helmet and feather,

Rode into the lists with a bound.

Sir Walter was silently waiting;

He shone like a statue of gold;
Blue heads of big pearls, like a netting,
Fell over his housings' red fold.
On his helmet a weathercock glittered,
A device of his errantry showing-
To prove he was ready to ride

Any way that the wind might be blowing.
Dick lifted his eyes up and smiled;

Oh, it brought the blood hot to my cheek!
I could see from his lips he was praying
That God would look down on the weak.
He seemed to be grown to his saddle-
I felt my brain tremble and reel;
He moved like a fire-ruling spirit,
Blazing from helmet to heel.

The King gave the sign, and the trumpet
Seemed to madden the horses, and drive
Them fast as the leaves in a tempest,

With a shock that tough iron would rive.
Both lances flew up, and the shivers
Leaped over the banners and flags,
As the champions, reining their chargers,
Sat holding the quivering jags.

"Fresh lances!" God's blessing on Dicky
A blast, and in flashes they go;
Well broken again on his scutcheon-
Again the wood snaps with a blow.
Alas for Sir Walter de Tracey!

His spear has flown out of his hand,
While over his bright, gilded crupper,
He stretches his length on the sand.
One start, he is up in a moment,

His sword waves, a torch, in his grasp;
Dick leaps from his foam-covered charger,
And springs with a clash to his clasp.
Sir Walter is shorn of his splendour;
His weathercock beaten to dust;
His armour has lost all its glitter,

And is dented with hammer and thrust.
He reels, and Dick presses him sorely,
And smites him as smiths do a forge;
He reels like an axe-stricken cedar;
He falls-yea, by God and St. George!
Then, oh! for the clamour and cheering
That rang round the circling ring,
As Dick, his blue feather gay blowing,
Knelt down at the foot of the King!

Then the King took the brightest of diamonds
That shone on his finger that day;

He gave it to bonny blue feather,

And made him the Baron of Bray.

Then the varlets bore off their Sir Walter,

The jewels beat out of his chains,

His armour all battered and dusty,
With less of proud blood in his veins.

Then they caught his mad, froth-covered charger,
That had torn off its housings of pearl;
They gathered up ribbons and feathers,
And downcast his banner they furl.

I was still looking down on the bearers,
When Dick o' the Diamond sprang in,
And, without a good-morrow or greeting,
He kissed me from brow unto chin.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

[WASHINGTON IRVING. See Page 1.]

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N one of those sober and rather | pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to melancholy days in the latter part three figures rudely carved in relief, but nearly of autumn, when the shadows of worn away by the footsteps of many generations. morning and evening almost They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; mingle together, and throw a the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names gloom over the decline of the alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in year, I passed several hours in later times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas . 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I remained some little while musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and had

rambling about Westminster Abbey.

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which formed the

JEMMY DAWSON.

perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes stiil to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be oblite. rated, and the monumens will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered co.umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spa ciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their

renown.

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition to see how they are crowded

247

together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy.

I passed some time in Poets' Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown, for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory, for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language.

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[WILLIAM SHENSTONE. Born at the Leasowes, Halesowen, Shropshire. Educated at Pembroke College, Oxford. Died February 11, 1763.]

COME listen to my mournful tale,

Yo tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, Do thou a pensive car incline; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint but mine. Young Dawson was a gallant youth, A brighter never trod the plain; And well he loved one charming maid, And dearly was he loved again. One tender maid she loved him dear, Of gentle blood the damsel came;

And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favoured youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appeared,

Oh, had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reached her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale or yet so chill appear,

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With faltering voice she weeping said,
"Oh, Dawson, monarch of my heart!
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes:
Oh, George! without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.

"The gracious prince that gave him life
Would crown a never-dying flame;

And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

"But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragged To yonder ignominious tree,

Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee."
Oh, then her mourning-coach was called,
The sledge moved slowly on before;
Though borne in her triumphal car,

She had not loved her favourite more.
She followed him, prepared to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes,
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly loved so long;

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THE School-house prayers were the same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys, who stood all together at the further table-of all sorts and sizes, like young bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him when he was in the same position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and poor little slight Arthur standing with them, and as he was leading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after prayers, and showing him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows looking on to the school close. There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the furthest corner by the fire-place occupied by the sixth-form boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags, for the fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves. Being fags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were all bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read.

Within a few minutes, therefore, of their entry, all the other boys who slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to each other in whispers; while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed talking and laughing.

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'Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands ?"

"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; "that's your washhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morning, if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.

• By kind permission of the Author. This acknowledgment was inadvertently omitted at page 100, 32-VOL. I.

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