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Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine.'
PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind,
4. Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to
from the Monastery.
Landed-landed! the black book hath won,
(1.)-SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL.
TO THE SUB-PRIOR.
Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, ON TWEED RIVER.
With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide;
But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill, 1.
There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. MERRILY swim we, the moon shines bright,
Back, back, Both current and ripple are dancing in light.
The volume black! We have roused the night raven, I heard him I bave a warrant to carry it back.
croak, As we plash'd along beneath the oak
What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier? Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise,
Who wakens my nestlings?" the raven he said, Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your “My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red !
prize. For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal,
Back, back, And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel."
There's death in the track!
In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back. 2. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
"In the name of my Master," said the astonished There's a golden gleam on the distant height: Monk, “that name before which all things created There's a silver shower on the alders dank, tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. hauntest me thus ?” I see the Abbey, both turret and tower,
The same voice replied, It is all astir for the vesper hour; The Monks for the chapel are leaving each cell, That which is neither ill nor well, But where's Father Philip should toll the bell ? That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,
1 Mrs. Euphemia Robinson, wife of William Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinedder), died September, 1819, and was
buried at Saline, in the county of Fife, where these lines are inscribed on the tombstone.
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.
At the crook of the glen, Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again.
Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Men of good are bold as sackless,"
Lie thou still
In the nook of the hill, For those be before thee that wish thee ill.
THRICE to the holly brake
Thrice to the well :I bid thee awake,
White Maid of Avenel!
Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell,
Noon gleams on the Lake
Noon glows on the FellWake thee, O wake,
White Maid of Avenel.
Thy craven fear my truth accused,
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
Within that awful volume lies
What I am I must not show-
Many a fathom dark and deep
The sacred pledge of Heav'n
And gazers mark their changeful gleams, But feel no influence from their beams.
By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race
Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid
strive To find, and canst not find.—Could Spirits shed
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, Showing the road which I shall never tread,
Though my foot points it.-Sleep, eternal sleep Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot !
But do not thou at human ills repine ; Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot
For all the woes that wait frail Adam's lineStoop then and make it yours,-I may not make it mine!
Look on my girdle—on this thread of gold-
ments Resign the principles of life they lent me. Ask me no more of this the stars forbid it.
THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD
GLENDINNING. Thou who seek'st my fountain lone, With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not own; Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, When most his brow seem'd dark and sad; Hie thee back, thou find'st not here Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; The Dead Alive is gone and fledGo thou, and join the Living Dead !