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Not long shall honour'd Douglas dwell,
[MS.-" He spoke, and plunged into the tide." ]
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,'
Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store,
Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sca, How are they blotted from the things that be!
How few, all weak and wither’d of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity,
Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his cease
Yet live there still who can remember well,
How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,
[“There are no separate introductions to the cantos of this poem; but each of them begins with one or two slanzas in the measure of Spenser, usually containing some reflections connected with the subject about to be entered on; and written, for the most part, with great tenderness and beauty. The following, we think, is among the most striking."-JEFFREY.]