And the good-wife would wish the good-man in the mire,

Ere he lack❜d a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

7.

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope, The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope! For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar, Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

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 grey 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:"

(5.)-THE BLACK KNIGHT'S SONG.

"AT the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore a stiff and mellow burthen to the better instructed Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:"

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit;
For what are the joys that in waking we prove,
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt! my love i
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,
But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love.

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.

(1.)-SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL.

(8.)-CHAP. XXXVII.

Anonymous.

Say not my art is fraud-all live by seeming.
The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming:
The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier
Will eke with it his service.-All admit it,
All practise it; and he who is content
With showing what he is, shall have small credit
In church, or camp, or state.-So wags the world.
Old Play.

(9.)-CHAP. XXXVIII.

Stern was the law which bade its vot'ries leave
At human woes with human hearts to grieve;
Stern was the law, which at the winning wile
Of frank and harmless mirth forebade to smile;
But sterner still, when high the iron-rod

Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd that power of God.

The Middle Ages.

Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine.'

1819.

PLAIN, as her native lignity of mind, Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd;

1 Mrs. Euphemia Robison, wife of William Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinedder,) died September, 1819, and was

ON TWEED RIVER.

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 plashed 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,
66 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."

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?

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!

buried at Saline, in the county of Fife where these lines are inscribed on the tombstone.

"In the name of MY Master," said the astonished Monk, "that name before which all things created tremble, I 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,
A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,
'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;
A form that men spy
With the half-shut eye

In the beams of the setting sun, am I.

Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night;

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. Again, again,

At the crook of the glen,

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again.

TO HALBERT.

YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me ? Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee? He that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear, nor failing;

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.

The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep

Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound; The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my

stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

What I am I must not show-
What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Something that neither stood nor fell—
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting loly moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,

While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span ;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!

1 Sackless-Innocent.