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Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal, and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas, that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best ;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world would

cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!



Oh listen, listen, ladyes gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

“Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

“ And, gentle ladye, deign to stay; " Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

“Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

“The blackening wave is edg'd with white;

“ To isle and rock the sea-mews fly;
" The fishers have heard the water sprite,

“Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.”

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“ 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

“ To-night at Rosslin leads the ball; “But that my ladye mother there

“Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

“ 'Tis not because the ring they ride,

“And Lindesay at the ring rides well; “But that my sire the wine will chide,

“If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.”

O'er Rosslin all that dreary night,

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam : 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,

And redder than the bright moon-beam.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Rosslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie;
Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheath'd in his iron panoply.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Rosslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chappelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the sea waves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Sir W. Scott.



BENEATH this stony roof reclin'd
I soothe to peace my pensive mind !
And while to shade my lonely cave
Embow'ring elms their umbrage wave,
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup unstain'd with wine,
I scorn the


licentious crowd, Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. Within


limits lone and still, The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Fast by my couch, congenial guest, The wren has wove her mossy nest, From busy scenes, and brighter skies, To lurk with innocence, she flies, Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. At noon I take my custom'd round, To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, And every opening primrose count, That trimly paints my blooming mount; Or, o'er the sculptures quaint and rude, That grace my gloomy solitude, I teach in winding wreaths to stray, Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. At eve within yon studious nook, I ope my

brass-embossed book, Portray'd with many a holy deed, Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn; And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings bedropt with gold.




While such pure joys my

bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state ?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his

pomp away,
To take my staff and amice gray,
And to the world's tumultuous stage,
Prefer the blameless heritage !

T. Wharton.


What's he that wishes for more men from England ?
My cousin Westmoreland ?—No, my fair cousin !
If we are mark'd to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will l I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;
Nor care I, who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not, if men my garments wear;
Such' outward things dwell not in ту

desires : But, if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England : God's peace,

I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more;
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he, which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse :
We would not die in that man's company,
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d—the feast of Crispian :
He, that outlives this day, and comes safe home,



Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He, that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,
And say-To morrow is St. Crispian :
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,
And say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day: Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household-words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd :
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered :
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition :
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.



DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there!
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

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