"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my lady-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 fill'd by Rosabelle.'

-O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fires' light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

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 cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheath'd in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd 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.

Sir W. Scott

XLVIII

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT

The stream was smooth as glass, we said, 'Arise and let's away :'

The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily

took our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattledotted plains,

The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;

The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed

away.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,

Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths

on our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more

we see

The spreading river's either bank, and surging

distantly

There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far

away.

Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!

The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight

The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,

When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded

ghost?

What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?

Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps

every oar away.

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this

the bay?

R. Garnett

XLIX

VERSES

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage,
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Lies hid in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell,
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest himself lags behind

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought,
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

W. Cowper