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 Seem'd all on fire within, around, Blazed battlement and pinnet high, There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 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 CCXXXVII ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN I SAW where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work; A flow'ret crushéd in the bud A nameless piece of Babyhood Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind Just when she had exactly wrought Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health, and days mature: Limbs so fair, they might supply That babe or mother, one must die; And cut the branch; to save the shock And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse C. Lamb CCXXXVIII THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET HERE art thou, my beloved Son, O find me, prosperous or undone ! Seven years, alas! to have received To have despair'd, have hoped, believed, Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! He was among the prime in worth, Well born, well bred; I sent him forth If things ensued that wanted grace, Ah! little doth the young one dream, dead! Where the lamps quiver From window and casement, The bleak wind of March But not the dark arch, In she plunged boldly, Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly |