And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,—
Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

VOL. XI.

THE MAID OF ISLA.

AIR-" The Maid of Isla."

WRITTEN FOR MR GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH MELODIES.

[1822.]

O, MAID OF ISLA, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff
Contend with ocean gallantly?

Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,
And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge?—
O, Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

O, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wing gleams through mist and spray Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark,

As to the rock she wheels away :—

Where clouds are dark and billows rave,
Why to the shelter should she come
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave ?—
O, maid of Isla, 'tis her home.

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintry cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave,

Must Allan Vourich find his home.

THE FORAY.'

YET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM.

THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red;
Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone,
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours, For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers, And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom, The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;

And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud; 'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;

1 [Set to music in Mr Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830.]

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and be

gone!

To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the

slain;

To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!