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Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you,
the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen But aye
she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there ;
The ladie was not seen!
Sir Walter Scott.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Why should we yet our sails unfurl ?
Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
Ah! what the form divine !
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
Walter Savage Landor.
Oh, listen, listen, ladies gay !
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
“Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
“ The blackening wave iş 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 lady gay ; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?”
66 '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.
66 'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide
If 't is not filled by Rosabelle.”
O'er Roslin all that weary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'T was broader than the watch-fire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; ’T was 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 Saint 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 Saint 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.
RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER1
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three. 66 By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ?
i Note 11.
“The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
He holds him with his skinny hand, “ There was a ship,” quoth he. “Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon!”
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye :
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
“The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared ;
Merrily did we drop
“ The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
“ Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon