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O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant, crew! And gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

'The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water-sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

Last night the gifted seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?'

'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

''Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle.'

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam; "Twas broader than the watch-fire light, And brighter 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 altars 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 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.

Sir Walter Scott.


Oh! say not that the picturings of youth
Are but the rainbow tints on April's sky!
Must all the dreams that danced before its eye
Fade in the light of stern unpitying truth?
Must noble thoughts and aspirations high,
The kindling ardour of the brave and free;
Must fancy's flash, and young love's purity,
All, like scorched flowers of summer, droop and die?

O! surely some lone relic will be left

To tell of brighter days and hopes gone by;
Surely the heart will never beat bereft

Of every throb of early ecstacy;

Surely-O! surely, round the ruined shrine,
Some unscathed boughs their fresh green sprays will


H. G. B.


I marked the calm on her young fair face,
As grief's rude storm passed o'er it,
But the ebbing smile had left no trace

Of struggles that rushed before it.
Each grief has its day;-love weep them away,
As the shower on April's blossom
Balms the drooping flower, till the sun's bright ray
Drinks the tear from its virgin bosom.

The flush o'er her fair face went and came,
As I showed her a true-love token;

I whispered hope, and the young god came,
But her virgin heart was broken!

In Wellburn garden, the white lilies bloom,

Eke the rose round the jessamine's twining; But they withered o'er Wellburn Mary's tomb, Ere the red winter sun there was shining.

Thomas Lyle.

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