When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
Twines not of them one golden thread,
But for its sake a Paynim bled.'

5.

"Joy to the fair!-my name unknown,
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own;
Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
The night-dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,

I feel the north breeze chill as death;
Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame."
Chap. xviii,

(2.)-THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

1.

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain, To search Europe through from Byzantium to Spain; But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,

So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

2.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song prick'd through

with a spear;

I confess him in haste-for his lady desires

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.

3.

Your monarch!-Pshaw! many a prince has been

known

To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown;
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire

To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar?

4.

The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop where he
tires,

For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

5.

He's expected at noon, and no wight, till he comes, May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums;

For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

6.

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot, They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black

pot;

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:"

Whet the bright steel,

1.

Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch,

Daughter of Hengist!

The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,

It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;

The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!

2.

The black clouds are low over the thane's castle:
The eagle screams-he rides on their bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!

The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.

3.

Dark sits the evening upon the thane's castle,

The black clouds gather round;

Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!

The sword cleaveth the helmet;

The strong armour is pierced by the lance:
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!

The race of Hengist is gone

The name of Horsa is no more!

Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!

Strong be your swords while your blood is warm.
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire!
I also must perish.

By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone:
Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And THOU hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But THOU hast said, The blood of goat, The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice.

Chap. xl.

(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:"

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree.
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

WAMBA.

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! 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.

Chap. xli.

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.

1820.

(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.1

1819.

PLAIN, as her native dignity 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.

1.

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,
"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."

2.

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.

1 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?

3.

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.