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O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
And redder than the bright moon-beam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from caverned Hawthornden.

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie;
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seemed all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmered all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

Ο

LOCHINVAR.

H, young Lochinvar is come out of the west;

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-
'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, "Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung !—

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow, 'quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran :
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

From Marmion.

COUNTY GUY.

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who thrilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL.

HE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

THE

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is husht and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warped and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
How to the ministrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;

And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

JAMES HOGG.

Born 1770. Died 1835.

KILMENY.

ONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen;

BONN

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the Yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress flower round the spring-
The scarlet hypp, and the hind-berry,
And the nut that hung frae the hazel-tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look over the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;
Lang the laird of Duneira blame,

And lang, lang greet ere Kilmeny come hame.

When many a day had come and fled,

When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,

When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,

When the bedesman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,

Late, late in a gloamin', when all was still,

When the fringe was red on the westlin hill;

The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,

The reek o' the cot hung over the plain-
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane--

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