Chap. xviii,

(3.)-SAXON WAR-SONG.

"THE fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore chanted on the field of battle by the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled gray hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid that scene of fire and slaughter:”—

All must perish!

4.

The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armor is pierced by the lance:
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!

The race of Hengist is gone-
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the
sword!

Let your blades drink blood like wine:
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm.
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire!
I also must perish.

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.

1820.

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 tonight?

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.

(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, 1 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.