. Cent un célèbre poème, avec un supplément de prose. Ne pars pas ici, Lowland ou Highland, loin ou près, Lord Angus, tu as menti!—sur les Earls joue le flush de la rageOercame la teinte de l'âge de l'âne;féroce il s'est cassé,— Et tu as la barbe du lion dans son coin, le Douglas dans sa salle et tu te sauras donc indemnes d'aller?non, par Saint-Bède de Bothwell, non!Up drawbridge, marié,—What, Warder, ho! Laissez tomber le portcullis.— Lord Marmion tourna,—Eh bien était son besoin!— et pointait les truelles dans sa direction, comme la flèche à travers l'arcade; la porte pondereuse behi

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. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!—On the Earls cheek the flush of rageOercame the ashen hue of age;Fierce he broke forth, —And darst thou thenTo beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall?And hopst thou hence unscathed to go?No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!Up drawbridge, grooms, —what, Warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.— Lord Marmion turned, —well was his need!— And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise;Not lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lakes level brim;And when Lord Marmion reached his bandHe halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. Page One Hundred and Thirty-nine ©tie ^innitreit unit 0)«e ^famous -jjoems. Ode on a Grecian Urn Johx Keats (Born October 31, 1795; Died February23, 18 21) Thou stiil unravished bride of quietness. Thou foster child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loath ?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone;Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss.Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and s

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