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William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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XVII.

59 lines
Walter Scott·1771–1832·Romanticism
ee Stumah, who, the bier besideHis master's corpse with wonder eyed,Poor Stumah! whom his least hallooCould send like lightning o'er the dew,Bristles his crest, and points his ears,As if some stranger step he hears.'T is not a mourner's muffled tread,Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead,But headlong haste or deadly fearUrge the precipitate career.All stand aghast:--unheeding all,The henchman bursts into the hall;Before the dead man's bier he stood,Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood;'The muster-place is Lanrick mead;Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!' XVIII, Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.In haste the stripling to his sideHis father's dirk and broadsword tied;But when he saw his mother's eyeWatch him in speechless agony,Back to her opened arms he flewPressed on her lips a fond adieu,--'Alas' she sobbed,--'and yet be gone,And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son!'One look he cast upon the bier,Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,And tossed aloft his bonnet crest,Then, like the high-bred colt when, freed,First he essays his fire and speed,He vanished, and o'er moor and mossSped forward with the Fiery Cross.Suspended was the widow's tearWhile yet his footsteps she could hear;And when she marked the henchman's eyeWet with unwonted sympathy,'Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is runThat should have sped thine errand on.The oak teas fallen?--the sapling bough Is allDuncraggan's shelter nowYet trust I well, his duty done,The orphan's God will guard my son.--And you, in many a danger trueAt Duncan's hest your blades that drew,To arms, and guard that orphan's head!Let babes and women wail the dead.'Then weapon-clang and martial callResounded through the funeral hall,While from the walls the attendant bandSnatched sword and targe with hurried hand;And short and flitting energyGlanced from the mourner's sunken eye,As if the sounds to warrior dearMight rouse her Duncan from his bier.But faded soon that borrowed force;Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.