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Love mastered fear-her brow she crossed;
"How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"
The Vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life,
So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive.'

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He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun :
There is a Monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That Monk, who speaks to none
That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That Monk the bold Baron.

CADYOW CASTLE.

ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

THE ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the re mains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the Eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. In this forest was long preserved the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity led to their extirpation, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls

are described by ancient authors as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.

WHEN princely Hamilton's abode

Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flowed,
And revel sped the laughing hours.

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheered the hall.

But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid,
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar.

Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame,
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tune my harp, of Border frame,
On the wild banks of Evandale.

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn,

To draw oblivion's pall aside,

And mark the long-forgotten urn.

Then, noble maid! at thy command,
Again the crumbled halls shall rise,
Lo as on Evan's banks we stand,
The past returns-the present flies.

Where with the rock's wood-covered side
Were blended late the ruins green,
Rise turrets in fantastic pride,

And feudal banners flaunt between:

Where the rude torrent's brawling course
Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe,
The ashler buttress braves its force,
And ramparts frown in battled row.

'Tis night-the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream,
And on the wave the warder's fire
Is chequering the moonlight beam.

Fades slow their light; the east is grey;
The weary warder leaves his tower;
Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay,
And merry hunters quit the bower.

The drawbridge falls-they hurry outClatters each plank and swinging chain, As dashing o'er, the jovial rout

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein.

First of his troop, the chief rode on;
His shouting merry-men throng behind;
The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind.

From the thick copse the roebucks bound,
The startling red-deer scuds the plain,
For the hoarse bugle's warrior sound
Has roused their mountain haunts again.

Through the huge oaks of Evandale,
Whose limbs a thousand years have worn,
What sullen roar comes down the gale,
And drowns the hunter's pealing horn?

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase
That roam in woody Caledon,
Crashing the forest in his race,

The Mountain Bull comes thundering on.

Fierce, on the hunters' quivered band,
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,
Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.

Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown;
Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan-
Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the pryse !

'Tis noon-against the knotted oak
The hunters rest the idle spear;

Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.

Proudly the chieftain marked his clan,
On greenwood lap all careless thrown,
Yet missed his eye the boldest man
That bore the name of Hamilton.

"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,
Still wont our woe and weal to share?
Why comes he not our sport to grace?
Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"

Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,
(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he,)
"At merry feast, or buxom chase,

No more the warrior shalt thou see.

Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,
When to his hearths, in social glee,

The war-worn soldier turned him home.

There, wan from her maternal throes,
His Margaret, beautiful and mild,
Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,

And peaceful nursed her new-born child.

O change accursed! past are those days;
False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,
Ascends destruction's volumed flame.

What sheeted phantom wanders wild,

Where mountain Eske through woodland flows,
Her arms infold a shadowy child-
Oh, is it she, the pallid rose?

The wildered traveller sees her glide,
And hears her feeble voice with awe-
'Revenge,' she cries, on Murray's pride!
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!

He ceased-and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band,
And half arose the kindling chief,

And half unsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,
Rides headlong with resistless speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed;

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,
As one, some visioned sight that saw,
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ?—
'Tis he! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh!

From gory selle, and reeling steed,
Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,
And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dashed his carbine on the ground.

Sternly he spoke-""Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown,
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod,
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,
But prouder base-born Murray rode
Through old Linlithgow's crowded town.

From the wild Border's humbled side,
In haughty triumph, marched he,
While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,

And smiled, the trait'rous pomp to see.

But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare,
The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,
Or change the purpose of Despair?

With hackbut bent, my secret stand
Dark as the purposed deed, I chose,
And marked, where, mingling in his band,
Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows.

Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,
Murder's foul minion, led the van;
And clashed their broadswords in the rear,
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan.

Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,
Obsequious at their Regent's rein,
And haggard Lindsay's iron eye,
That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove,
Proud Murray's plumage floated high;
Scarce could his trampling charger move,
So close the minions crowded nigh.

From the raised visor's shade, his eye,

Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high, Seemed marshalling the iron throng.

But yet his saddened brow confessed
A passing shade of doubt and awe;
Some fiend was whispering in his breast,
'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!'

The death-shot parts-the charger springs-
Wild rises tumult's startling roar !-
And Murray's plumy helmet rings-
Rings on the ground, to rise no more.

What joy the raptured youth can feel,
To hear her love the loved one tell,
Or he, who broaches on his steel

The wolf, by whom his infant fell!

But dearer to my injured eye,

To see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy To hear him groan his felon soul.

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