Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing,
As if to court the aim.-Experience watches,
And has her on the wheel.-

CHAPTER XLIV.

NAY, if she love me not, I care not for her.
Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms?
Or sigh because she smiles-and smiles on others?
Not I, by Heaven !—I hold my peace too dear,
To let it, like the plume upon her cap,

Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate.

THE bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath
Feels, in its barrenness, some touch of spring;
And, in the April dew, or beam of May,
Its moss and lichen freshen and revive;

And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure,
Melts at the tear, joys in the smile of woman.

MAJOR BELLENDEN'S SONG.

AND what though winter will pinch severe
Through locks of grey 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?

EPITAPH ON BALFOUR OF BURLEY.

HERE lyes ane saint to prelates surly,
Being John Balfour, sometime of Burley,
Who, stirred up to vengeance take,

For Solemn League and Cov'nant's sake,

Upon the Magus-Moor, in Fife,

Did tak' James Sharpe the apostate's life; By Dutchman's hands was hacked and shot, Then drowned in Clyde near this saam spot.

MOTTOES.

CHAPTER XIV.

My hounds may a' rin masterless,

My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be !

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.

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.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,—

Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?