WHEN, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain,
There is a pleasure in this pain:
It soothes the love of lonely rest,
Deep in each gentle heart impress'd.
'Tis silent amid worldly toils,
And stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosom thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
'Twixt resignation and content.

It was an English lady bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

When the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall: Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all!

From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

THAT wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all !

And then he took the cross divine,

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all !

FAIR as the earliest beam of eastern light,
When first, by the bewilder'd pilgrim spied,
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night,
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide,
And lights the fearful path on mountain-side ;—
Fair as that beam, although the fairest far,
Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,

Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's bright star,

Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow

of War.

From The Lady of the Lake.

Look not thou on beauty's charming,Sit thou still when kings are arming,— Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,— Speak not when the people listens,— Stop thine ear against the singer,— From the red gold keep thy finger,Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,