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Her parents held the Quaker rule Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was train'd in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour ! gone before
Some summer morning -
E is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the raindrops shall borrow
To Duncan no morrow !
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are serest, But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever !
Sir W. Scott
THE DEATH BED
E watch'd her breathing thro’ the night,
Her , As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
But when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
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 lady, 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 lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
"'T is 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.
"'T is 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 fill'd by Rosabelle.'
O'er Roslin all that dreary 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 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 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 W. Scott
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN
SAW where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work ;