Where raged the war, a dark red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn!-behold her mark A little fountain-cell,

Where water, clear as diamond spark,

In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
"Drink weary pilgrim, drink and pray,
For the kind soul of Sybil Grey,
Who built this cross and well.”
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head!" Then as remembrance rose,

Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!

I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare. Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, "the while,

O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle."-

Lord Marmion started from the ground,

As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!"-he said-" I knew
That the dark presage must be true.—
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!

For wasting fire and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be! this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my falling brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."—
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound,

And strove to staunch the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, bore down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand,

Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—

O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-" STANLEY!" was the cry ;-
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory !—

"Charge, Chester, charge! On Stanley, on !"***

Were the last words of Marmion.

SCOTT.

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.

AN old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a

vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke :—

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was on the very point of striking.

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Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands." Very good!" replied the pendulum, “it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,—it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself by watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do.""As to that," said the dial," is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?"

"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I'll

tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you above there can give me the exact sum.'

The minute hand, being quick at figures, presently replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times."

Exactly so," replied the pendulum; "well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop."

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied :

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden action. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it wil fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favour to give half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?" The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace.Now," resumed the dial, " may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?"

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"Not in the least," replied the pendulum, "it is not