THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG. 357

Come in thine own good time!

We will abide; we have not turned from thee,
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go,
That we may worship where the torrents flow
And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves

We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there
Safe temples, quiet graves!

(1830.)

STANZAS

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

MOST beautiful!

I gaze and gaze

In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine ;
But if I stood a stranger here,

The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,

Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,
Or the false Prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner's art hath traced
From the time-honoured stone?

(1830.)

The Spirit here of Worship seems
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour's silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE OF "THE KEEPSAKE.

LADY, there's fragrance in your sighs,
And sunlight in your glances;
I never saw such lips and eyes
In pictures or romances;
And Love will readily suppose,
To make you quite enslaving,
That

you have taste for verse and
Hot pressed, and line engraving.

prose,

And then, you waltz so like a Fay,
That round you envy rankles;
Your partner's head is turned, they say,

As surely as his ankles;

And I was taught, in days far gone,

By a most prudent mother,

That in this world of sorrow, one

Good turn deserves another.

WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE OF THE KEEPSAKE. 361

I may not win you !-that's a bore!
But yet 'tis sweet to woo you;
And for this cause,-and twenty more,
book to you.

I send this

gay

If its songs please you,-by this light!
I will not hold it treason

To bid you dream of me to-night,
And dance with me next season.

(1830.)