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And passed the English archers all,

Without all dread or fear,
And through Earl Piercy's body then

He thrust his hateful spear.

With such a vehement force and might

He did his body gore,
The spear ran through the other side

A large cloth-yard, and more.

So thus did both these nobles dye,

Whose courage none could stain; An English archer then perceived

The noble earl was slain.

He had a bow bent in his hand,

Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long

Up to the head drew he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery

So right his shaft he set,
The gray goose-wing that was thereon

In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day

Till setting of the sun;
For when they rung the evening bell,

The battel scarce was done.

With the Earl Piercy, there was slain

Sir John of Ogerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and good Sir James,

Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slain,

Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail,

As one in doleful dumps;
For when his legs were smitten off,

He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas, there was slain

Sir Hugh Montgomery,
Sir Charles Currel, that from the field

One foot would never fly.

Sir Charles Murrel, of Ratcliff, too,

His sister's son was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,

Yet savéd could not bee.

And the Lord Maxwell in like wise

Did with Earl Douglas dye;
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears

Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,

Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slain in Chevy-Chace,

Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come,

Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears,

But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,

They bore with them away: They kissed them dead a thousand times,

When they were clad in clay.

This news was brought to Edinburgh,

Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly

Was with an arrow slaine.

“O heavy news,” King James did say;

“Scotland can witness be, I have not any captain more

Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came,

Within as short a space,
That Piercy of Northumberland

Was slaine in Chevy-Chace.

“Now God be with him," said our king,

“Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm

Five hundred as good as he.

“Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say,

But I will vengeance take, And be revenged on them all,

For brave Earl Piercy's sake.”

This vow full well the king performed,

After, on Humbledown;
In one day, fifty knights were slain,

With lords of great renown.

And of the rest, of small account,

Did many thousands dye: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,

Made by the Earl Piercy.

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God save the king, and bless the land

In plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foul debate

'Twixt noblemen may cease!


HONORÉ DE BALZAC, the most famous of French novelists. Born in Tours, May 16, 1799; died in Paris, August 18, 1850. The author of ninety-seven novels within twenty years; among them, “Eugénie Grandet,” “The Country Doctor,” “The Woman of Thirty," "Scenes of Paris Life,” “Lost Illusions,” “Père Goriot,

.” “César Birotteau," "The Grenadier Woman," “Cousin Betty,”

," "Scenes of Political Life," "The Poor Relations," "Scenes of Military Life."

Balzac called his collected works the “Comédie Humaine,” in contrast to Dante's “Divine Comedy"; and if the great Italian's masterpiece is eminently characteristic of the Middle Ages, that of the Frenchman is no less a faithful picture of his country in the nineteenth century. He called himself, indeed, the "secretary of society," whose duty was faithfully to record the virtues and the vices of his age. As a delineator of the scenes and actors in the tragedy and comedy of human existence, Balzac has never been surpassed. If some of his detailed descriptions and analyses now seem a trifle tedious, the finished pictures of such characters as “Eugénie Grandet," "Père Goriot," and "The Country Doctor" still have indisputable value as most subtle portraitures of human strength and weakness.


FOR souls to whom effusiveness is easy there is a delicious hour that falls when it is not yet night, but is no longer day; the twilight gleam throws softened lights or tricksy reflections on every object, and favors a dreamy mood which vaguely weds itself to the play of light and shade. The silence which generally prevails at that time makes it particularly dear to artists, who grow contemplative, stand a few paces back from the pictures on which they can no longer work, and pass judgment on them, rapt by the subject whose most recondite meaning then flashes on the inner eye of genius. He who has never stood pensive by a friend's side in such an hour of poetic dreaming can hardly understand its inexpressible soothingness. Favored by the clear-obscure, the material skill employed by art to produce illusion entirely disappears. If the work is a picture, the figures represented seem to speak and walk; the shade is shadow, the light is day; the flesh lives, eyes move, blood flows in their veins, and stuffs have a changing sheen. Imagination helps the realism of every detail, and only sees the beauties of the work. At that hour illusion reigns despotically; perhaps it wakes at nightfall! Is not illusion a sort of night to the mind, which we people with dreams? Illusion then unfolds its wings, it bears the soul aloft to the world of fancies, a world full of voluptuous imaginings, where the artist forgets the real world, yesterday and the morrow, the future -- everything down to its miseries, the good and the evil alike.

At this magic hour a young painter, a man of talent, who saw in art nothing but Art itself, was perched on a step-ladder which helped him to work at a large high painting, now nearly finished. Criticizing himself, honestly admiring himself, floating on the current of his thoughts, he then lost himself in one of those meditative moods which ravish and elevate the soul, soothe it, and comfort it. His reverie had no doubt lasted a long time. Night fell. Whether he meant to come down from his perch, or whether he made some ill-judged movement, believing himself to be on the floor — the event did not allow of his remembering exactly the cause of his accident — he fell, his head struck a footstool, he lost consciousness and lay motionless during a space of time of which he knew not the length.

A sweet voice roused him from the stunned condition into which he had sunk. When he opened his eyes the flash of a bright light made him close them again immediately; but through the mist that veiled his senses he heard the whispering of two women, and felt two young, two timid hands on which his head was resting. He soon recovered consciousness, and by the light of an old-fashioned Argand lamp he could make out the most charming girl's face he had ever seen, one of those heads which are often supposed to be a freak of the brush, but which to him suddenly realized the theories of the ideal beauty which every artist creates for himself and whence his art proceeds. The features of the unknown belonged, so to say, to the refined and delicate type of Prud'hon's school, but had also the poetic sentiment which Girodet gave to the inventions of his fantasy. The freshness of the temples, the regular arch of the eyebrows, the purity of outline, the virginal innocence so plainly stamped on every feature of her countenance, made the girl a perfect

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