. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. ho sounds of fear ! The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep So stillv on thy bosom deep, The larks blithe carol from the cloud Seems for the scene too gayly loud. Speed, Malise, speed ! The lake is past,Duncraggans huts appear at last, 13 194 scorrs poetical works. And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen, Hall hidden in the copse so green; There niayst thou rest, thy labor done, Their lord shall speed the signal on. — As stoops the hawk ui)on his prey. The henchman shot him down the way. What woful acce
. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. ho sounds of fear ! The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep So stillv on thy bosom deep, The larks blithe carol from the cloud Seems for the scene too gayly loud. Speed, Malise, speed ! The lake is past,Duncraggans huts appear at last, 13 194 scorrs poetical works. And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen, Hall hidden in the copse so green; There niayst thou rest, thy labor done, Their lord shall speed the signal on. — As stoops the hawk ui)on his prey. The henchman shot him down the way. What woful accents load the gale . Tile funeral yell, the female wail ! A gallant hunters sport is oer, A valiant warrior tiglits no more. Who, in tile battle or the chase. At Rodericks side shall till his place ! — Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber !Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever ! See Stumah, who, the bier masters corpse with wonder eyed,. Within the hall, where torchs raySupplies the excluded beams of day,Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,And oer him streams his widows stripling son stands mournful by,His youngest weeps, but knows not whyThe village maids and matrons roundThe dismal coronach resound. CToronari]. He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the font, reappearing. From the rain-drops shall to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are our flower was in flushing. When blighting was nearest. Poor Stumah ! whom his least hallooCould send like lightning oer the dew,Bristles his crest, and points his ears,As if some stranger step he not a mourners muffled tread,Wh
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Keywords: ., bookauthorrolfewjw, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookyear1888
