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It bristled up its scaly back,

Curled high its jointed tail,

And ready stood, with grinning teeth,
The hero to assail;

Then sprung at the knight with all its might,
And its foamy teeth it gnashed;

With its jointed tail, like a thrasher's flail,
The flinty rock it lashed.

But quick of eye, and swift of foot,

He guarded the attack;

And dealt his brand with skilful hand
Upon the dragon's back.

Again, again, at the knight it flew;
The fight was long and sore:
He bravely stood, nor dropped his sword
Till he could strike no more.

It rose on high, and darkened the sky,
Then, with a hideous yell,

A moment winnowed th' air with its wings,
And down like a mountain fell.

He stood prepared for the falling blow,
But mournful was his fate :

Awhile he reeled, then, staggering, fell
Beneath the monster's weight.

And round about its prostrate foe

Its fearful length it rolled,

And clasped him close, till his armour cracked

Within its scaly fold.

But pierced by the blades, from body and breast,

Fast did the red blood pour;

Cut by the blades, piece fell by piece,

And quivered in the gore.

Piece fell by piece, foot fell by foot:
No more is the river clear,

But stained with blood, as the severed limbs
Rolled down the rushing Wear.

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Piece fell by piece, and inch by inch,
From the body and the tail;

But the head still hung by the gory teeth
Tight fastened in the mail.

It panted long, and fast it breathed,
With many a bitter groan;

Its eyes grew dim, it loosed its hold,
And fell like a lifeless stone.

Then loud he blew on his bugle-horn,
The blast of victory;

From rock to rock the sound was borne,
By Echo, glad and free;

For, burdened long by the dragon's roar,
She joy'd in her liberty.

But not his hound, with gladdened bound,
Comes leaping at the call;

With feelings dire, he sees his sire
Rush from his ancient hall.

Oh! what can equal a father's love,
When harm to his son he fears;

'Tis stronger than a sister's sigh,
More deep than a mother's tears.

When Lambton's anxious listening lord,
Heard the bugle notes so wild,
He thought no more of his plighted word,
But ran to clasp his child.

"Strange is my lot," said the luckless wight;

"How sorrow and joy combine!

When high in fame to my home I came,
My kindred did weep and pine.

"This morn my triumph sees, and sees

Dishonour light on me:

For I had vowed to the Holy Maid,

If she gave me victory,

What first I met, when the fight was o'er,
Her offering should be.

Y

"I thought to have slain my gallant hound,

Beneath my unwilling knife:

But I cannot raise my hand on him
Who gave my being life!"

And heavy and sorrowful was his heart,
And he hath gone again

To seek advice of the wise woman,
Old Elspat of the Glen.

"Since thy solemn vow is unfulfilled,
Though greater be thy fame,
Thou must a lofty chapel build
To the Virgin Mary's name.

"On nine generations of thy race
A heavy curse shall fall:

They may die in the fight, or in the chase,

But not in their native hall."

He builded there a chapel fair,

And rich endowment made,

Where morn and eve, by cowled monk,

In sable garb arrayed,

The bell was rung, the mass was sung,
And the solemn prayer was said.

L'Envoy.

Such is the tale which, in ages past,

On the dreary winter's eve,

In baron's hall, the harper blind,

In wildest strain, would weave;

Till the peasants, trembling, nearer crept,
And each strange event believe.

Such is the tale which often yet.
Around the Christmas fire,

Is told to the merry wassail group,
By some old dame or sire.

But though they tell that the crystal well Still flows by the lovely Wear,

And that the hill is verdant still,

His listeners shew no fear.

And though he tell that of Lambton's race
Nine of them died at sea

Or in the battle, or in the chase,

They shake their heads doubtingly

And though he say there may still be seen
The mail worn by the knight,

Tho' the blades are blunt, that once were keen,
And rusted that once were bright;

They do but shake their heads the more,
And laugh at him outright.

For Knowledge to their view has spread
Her rich and varied store:

They learn and read, and take no heed
Of legendary lore.

And pure Religion hath o'er them shed

A holier heavenly ray;

And dragons and witches, and mail-clad knights,

Are vanished away;

As the creatures of darkness flee and hide,
From the light of the dawning day.

But Lambton's castle still stands by the Wear,
A tall and stately pile;

And Lambton's name is a name of might,

'Mong the mightiest of our isle.

Long may the sun of Prosperity

Upon the Lambtons smile!

J. WATSON.

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EAR the frowning and rugged crags of Harbottle, in Northumberland, which impart a high degree of sublimity to the adjoining scenery, is the famous "Drake Stone," near the Loughs, which rivals the Bowder Stone in Westmoreland. It is customary with the young men in the neighbourhood to climb up this huge rock, from the top of which there is a fine prospect of the vale below, but it requires considerable dexterity and address to descend. The rustics here relate a story respecting the "Drake Stone" with great glee. On one fine summer evening, a few years ago, a stranger arrived at the village. He entered a public house, and having taken some refreshment, immediately departed. His intention was to ascend the Drake Stone, which he did with little difficulty, and after remaining for some time on the summit of the rock, enjoying the beautiful and extensive prospect, the deepening gloom warned him that it was time to depart, and he therefore set about descending the dangerous rock, but in vain. He looked at the yawning depth below and shuddered at the prospect of attempting to descend; further, the night was closing in, not a human being was in sight, and the poor traveller in an agony of fear was obliged to content himself with remaining on the cold rock with the starry heaven for a canopy. Wrapping himself up in his garments as well as he could, he laid him down. to obtain, if possible, some repose. To sleep, however, was not in his power, the knowledge of his situation made him to lay awake, anxiously awaiting the break of day. Early on the following morn

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