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Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine.'

1819.

PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd;
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul.—
But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear,
By which thine urn, EUPHEMIA, claims the tear!
Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow,
And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

From the Monastery.

3.

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, Downward we drift through shadow and light. Under yon rock the eddies sleep,

Calm and silent, dark and deep.

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool, He has lighted his candle of death and of dool: Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee

4.

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to night?

A man of mean or a man of might?

Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove,
Or lover who crosses to visit his love?
Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we pass'd,— ·
"God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the
bridge fast!

All that come to my cove are sunk,
Priest or layman, lover or monk."

Landed-landed! the black book hath won,
Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,
For seldom they land that go swimming with me.
Chap. v.

1820.

(1.)-SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL,

ON TWEED RIVER.

1.

MERRILY Swim we, the moon shines bright,
Both current and ripple are dancing in light.
We have roused the night raven, I heard him
croak,

As we plash'd along beneath the oak

That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. "Who wakens my nestlings?" the raven he said, "My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red! For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel.”

2.

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
There's a golden gleam on the distant height:
There's a silver shower on the alders dank,
And the drooping willows that wave on the bank.
I see the Abbey, both turret and tower,
It is all astir for the vesper hour;
The Monks for the chapel are leaving each cell,
But where's Father Philip should toll the bell?

1 Mrs. Euphemia Robinson, wife of William Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinedder), died September, 1819, and was

TO THE SUB-PRIOR.

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill, There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. Back, back,

The volume black!

I have a warrant to carry it back.

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here
To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier
Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise,
Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your
prize.

Back, back,

There's death in the track! In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.

"In the name of My Master," said the astonished Monk, "that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus ?"

The same voice replied,

That which is neither ill nor well,

That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,

buried at Saline, in the county of Fife, where these lines are inscribed on the tombstone.

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,
"Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;
A form that men spy
With the half-shut eye

In the beams of the setting sun, am I.

Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night;

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. Again, again,

At the crook of the glen,

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again.

Men of good are bold as sackless,'

Men of rude are wild and reckless.

Lie thou still

In the nook of the hill,

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.

Chap. ix.

HALBERT'S INCANTATION.

THRICE to the holly brake

Thrice to the well:

I bid thee awake,

White Maid of Avenel!

Noon gleams on the LakeNoon glows on the Fell-Wake thee, O wake,

White Maid of Avenel.

TO HALBERT.

YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee? He that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear, nor failing;

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.

The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close

of day.

What I am I must not show

What I am thou couldst not know

1 Sackless-Innocent.

Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Something that neither stood nor fell-
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work thee ill
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;

Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show-

This is all that thou may'st know.

Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell

To waken me here by the Fairies' Well
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk,

More than to seek my haunted walk;

And thou hast loved the lance and the sword,
More than good text and holy word;

And thou hast loved the deer to track,
More than the lines and the letters black;
And thou art a ranger of moss and wood,
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.

Thy craven fear my truth accused,
Thine idlehood my trust abused;
He that draws to harbor late,
Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn'd,
Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd;
Valor and constancy alone

Can bring thee back the chance that's flown

Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

Many a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing-
Ethereal music ever flowing-

The sacred pledge of Heav'n

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