Seemed all on fire, within, around, Deep sacristy and altars pale; Blazed battlement and pinnet high, There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 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-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. Sir Walter Scott. SONNET. Oh! say not that the picturings of youth The kindling ardour of the brave and free; Must fancy's flash, and young love's purity, To tell of brighter days and hopes gone by; Surely the heart will never beat bereft Of every throb of early ecstacy; Surely-O! surely, round the ruined shrine, Some unscathed boughs their fresh green sprays will twine! H. G. B. WELLBURN'S MARY. I marked the calm on her young fair face, Each grief has its day;-love weep them away, Balms the drooping flower, till the sun's bright ray The flush o'er her fair face went and came, In Wellburn garden, the white lilies bloom, Eke the rose round the jessamine's twining; But they withered o'er Wellburn Mary's tomb, Ere the red winter sun there was shining. Thomas Lyle. THE WIDOWED MOTHER. Beside her babe, who sweetly slept, A widowed mother sat and wept And as the sobs thick-gathering came, She murmured her dead husband's name 'Mid that sad lullaby. Well might that lullaby be sad, The sea will not give back its prey- Stedfastly as a star doth look She gazed upon the bosom While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke Into the room;-the babe awoke, And from his cradle smiled! Ah me! what kindling smiles met there! With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, All tears at once were swept away, Sufferings there are from nature sprung, May venture to declare; But this as holy writ is sure, The griefs she bids us here endure, She can herself repair!' Professor Wilson. .1 |