There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 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. If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day, When the broken arches are black in night, Streams on the ruin'd central tower; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go but go alone the while— Then view St David's ruin'd pile; 216 SELECT MOTTOES AND IMAGES. REMORSE she ne'er forsakes us— A bloodhound stanch-she tracks our rapid step Antiquary. Fortune, you say, flies from us- -She but circles, Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's skiff- Ibid. As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle sound, Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle, |