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Seemed all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altars pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail.

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 Roslin's barons bold
Lie within that proud chapelle;

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
Are but the rainbow tints on April's sky!
Must all the dreams that danced before its eye
Fade in the light of stern unpitying truth?
Must noble thoughts and aspirations high,

The kindling ardour of the brave and free;

Must fancy's flash, and young love's purity,
All, like scorched flowers of summer, droop and die?
O! surely some lone relic will be left

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,
As grief's rude storm passed o'er it,
But the ebbing smile had left no trace
Of struggles that rushed before it.

Each grief has its day;-love weep them away,
As the shower on April's blossom

Balms the drooping flower, till the sun's bright ray
Drinks the tear from its virgin bosom.

The flush o'er her fair face went and came,
As I showed her a true-love token;
I whispered hope, and the young god came,
But her virgin heart was broken!

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

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And as the sobs thick-gathering came,

She murmured her dead husband's name

'Mid that sad lullaby.

Well might that lullaby be sad,
For not one single friend she had
On this cold-hearted earth;

The sea will not give back its prey-
And they were wrapt in foreign clay
Who gave the orphan birth.

Stedfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,

She gazed upon the bosom
And fair brow of her sleeping son-
• O merciful heaven! when I am gone
Thine is this earthly blossom!'

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!
I know not whether was more fair,
The mother or her child!

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,
And to her bosom leapt―

All tears at once were swept away,
And said a face as bright as day,-

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Sufferings there are from nature sprung,
Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue

May venture to declare;

But this as holy writ is sure,

The griefs she bids us here endure,

She can herself repair!'

Professor Wilson.

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