A gallery of famous English and American poets . ddens dismal raise the universal , legend, tune, and many an age that wail prolong:Still from the sire the son shall hearOf the stern strife, and carnage drear. Of Floddens fatal field,Where shivered was fair Scotlands spear. And broken was her shield. Day dawns upon the mountains side:—There, Scotland! lay thy bravest , knights, and nobles, many a one:The sad survivors all are gone.—View not that corpse mistrustfully,Defaced and mangled though it be;Nor to yon Border castle northward with
A gallery of famous English and American poets . ddens dismal raise the universal , legend, tune, and many an age that wail prolong:Still from the sire the son shall hearOf the stern strife, and carnage drear. Of Floddens fatal field,Where shivered was fair Scotlands spear. And broken was her shield. Day dawns upon the mountains side:—There, Scotland! lay thy bravest , knights, and nobles, many a one:The sad survivors all are gone.—View not that corpse mistrustfully,Defaced and mangled though it be;Nor to yon Border castle northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain,That, journeying far on foreign strand,The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. 41 162 SCOTT. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;Reckless of hfe, he desperate fought, And fell on Flodden plain:And well in death his trusty brand,Firm clenched within liis manly hand. Beseemed the monarch , 0 ! how changed since yon blithe night!Gladly I turn me from the sight, Unto my tale sSs^gajEiis* THE CYPKESS WREATH. THE CYPRESS WREATH. 0 LADY, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of tlie cypress tree!Too lively glow the lilies light,The varnished hollys all too bright;The May-flower and the eglantineMay shade a brow less sad than mine;But, lady, weave no wreath for me,Or weave it of the cypress tree! Let dimpled Mirth his temples twineWith tendrils of the laughing vine;The manly oak, the pensive yew,To patriot and to sage be due;The myrtle bough bids lovers live,But that Matilda will not give ;Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress tree! Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipped in dew; On favored Erins crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green— But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of tlie cypress tree! Strike the wild harp, while maids prepareThe ivy meet for minstrels hair;And, while his
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