Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string!

T'is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;

And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell

And now, 't is silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well!

Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake.

BRIGNALL BANKS

During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote to Morritt: "There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, I like them myself. One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-aDale."

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,

A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:

"O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.”

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with

me,

To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green wood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May."
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.
"I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn

To keep the king's green wood.”
“A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 't is at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!

"With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold dragoon,

66

That lists the tuck of drum."

"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And O, though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May!

Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die:
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there. Would grace a summer queen.”

From Rokeby, 1813.

"Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried:

"So long enjoyed, so oft misused— Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!

"Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay. "Redeem mine hours-the space is brief

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,

And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part forever!"

From The Antiquary, 1816.

CAVALIER SONG

AND what though winter will pinch

severe

Through locks of gray and a cloak that 's old,

Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier.

For a cup of sack shall fence the cold.

For time will rust the brightest blade, And years will break the strongest bow:

Was never wight so starkly made,
But time and years would overthrow.
From Old Mortality, 1816.

CLARION

SOUND, Sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
From Old Mortality, 1816.

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW

HILL

"It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth,-namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west. are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's hand." Lockhart's Life of Scott, Chapter 39.

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.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady.

The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady.'"

From The Heart of Midlothian, 1818.

TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE

TRUE-LOVE, an thou be true,

Thou hast ane kittle part to play, For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou Maun strive for many a day.

I've kend by mony a friend's tale,
Far better by this heart of mine,
What time and change of fancy avail,
A true love-knot to untwine.
From The Bride of Lammermoor, 1819.

REBECCA'S HYMN

WHEN Israel of the Lord beloved

Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands

Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen,

And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between.

No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen, When brightly shines the prosperous day,

Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray!
And O, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent
night,

Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn But Thou hast said, The blood of goat. The flesh of rams I will not prize;

A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.
From Ivanhoe, 1818.

BORDER BALLAD

MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the border,

Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story, Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing.

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms and march in good order;

England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the the Border.

From The Monastery, 1820.