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The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill.

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush 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 ruin'd 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?

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
• The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,

How to the minstrel'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.

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THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family and a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettricke Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognising her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's "Fleur d'Epine."


The waid of Deidpath.

Oh! lovers' eyes are sharp to see,

And lovers' ears in hearing; And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower,

And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower

To watch her love's returning,

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,

Her form decayed by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,

You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying; By fits, so ashy pale she grew,

Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers, to see and hear,

Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,

She heard her lover's riding ;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned,

She knew, and waved to greet him ;
And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.

The Maid of Neidpath.

He came-he passed—a heedless gaze,

As o'er some stranger glancing, Her welcome spoke, in faltering phrase,

Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle arch, whose hollow tone

Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan,

Which told her heart was broken.

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