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."

Chorus.

Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer queen.

Sir Walter Scott.

CCCVIII.

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
To watch her Love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay'd by pining,

Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.

By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;

By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
She heard her lover's riding;

Ere scarce a distant form was ken'd
She knew, and waved to greet him,
And o'er the battlement did bend,
As on the wing to meet him.

He came―he pass'd-an heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing ;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing.
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan

Which told her heart was broken.

Sir Walter Scott.

CCCIX.

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I'VE heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting, before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awae.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;

Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing; Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering;

Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, or gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awae.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming

'Bout stacks, wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— The Flowers of the Forest are weded awae.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awae.

Jean Elliott.

CCCX.

ODE TO DUTY.

STERN Daughter of the voice of God!

O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth
Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
Who do thy work, and know it not :

Oh! if through confidence misplaced

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be

When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard

Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if

I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul

Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control,

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance-desires :

My hopes no more must change their name;

I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are
fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give ;

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.

W. Wordsworth.

CCCXI.

THE TRUE AND THE FALSE LOVER.

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

Eleu loro

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take

Parted for ever,