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Still of beauty possess'd, and not yet void of shame,
In a brothel next see her, trick'd out to allure,
While thus the barb’d arrow sinks deep in her soul,
breath, And lo! her blue eyes are now seald up in death:
O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall,
all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
in Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?
66 O come
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, “ 'twere better
(invar," To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door and the charger
stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “ She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur,
Lochinvar, They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young
There was mounting'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
[they ran : Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,
Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair ?
pray what mighty joys can be found in a glass, If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lass.
'Tis woman whose joys every rapture impart, And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart, The miser himself (so supreme is her sway) Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.
At the sound of her voice sorrow lifts up his head,
, And poverty listens well pleas'd from his shed, Whilst age in half extacy hobbling along, Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.
Then fill me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
Says Plato, why should man be vain,
Since bounteous heaven hath made him great? Why look with insolent disdain
On those undeck'd with wealth or state? Can splendid robes or beds of down,
Or costly gems that deck the fair, Can all the glories of a crown,
Give health, or ease the brow of care ?
* An alteration of a song written by the Rev. Mathew Pilkington, beginning
“Why, Lycidas, should man be vain,"