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FOREBODING THE FATE OF ROSABELLE.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
'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;
Last night the gifted seer did view
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?'
'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,
''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,
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
And each St Clair was buried there,
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
O! surely some lone relic will be left
To tell of brighter days and hopes gone by;
Of every throb of early ecstacy;
Surely-O! surely, round the ruined shrine,
H. G. B.
I marked the calm on her young fair face,
Of struggles that rushed before it.
The flush o'er her fair face went and came,
I whispered hope, and the young god came,
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.