In our cell returns to nought. more. Alas! alas! Not ours the grace These holy characters to trace; Though I'm form'd from the ether blue, And my blood is of the unfallen dew, And thou art framed of mud and dust, "Tis thine to speak, reply I must. A mightier wizard far than I He wields the heart of man at will, The fitting time, the fitting guide. Ask thy heart, whose secret cell Is fill'd with Mary Avenel! When Norman Ulric first assumed the name, That star, when culminating in its orbit, Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew, Aud this bright font received it-and a Spirit Complain not of me, child of clay, Rose from the fountain, and her date THE WHITE LADY TO MARY Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive, Look on my girdle-on this thread Maiden, attend! Beneath my foot of gold "Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, And, but there is a spell on't, would not bind, Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe. But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive chain, Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, Even when his locks were longestit hath dwindled, Hath 'minish'd in its substance and its strength, As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel. When this fail thread gives way, I to the elements Resign the principles of life they lent me. Ask me no more of this!-the stars forbid it. Dim burns the once bright star of Dim as the beacon when the morn is And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the light-house; There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion, THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD THOU who seek'st my fountain lone, Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, When most his brow seem'd dark and sad; Hie thee back, thou find'st not here Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the Corpse or coffin, grave or bier; aspect That lowers upon its fortunes. The Dead Alive is gone and fled- The Living Dead, whose sober brow Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, Whose hearts within are seldom cured Of passions by their vows abjured; Seek the convent's vaulted room, THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL. FARE THEE WELL, thou Holly green! As to greet my slow descending, Farewell, Fountain! now not long The knot of fate at length is tied, BORDER BALLAD. I. MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. II. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. GOLDTHRED'S SONG. Or all the birds on bush or tree, To those the cup that trowl. And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest. Then, though hours be late, and weather foul, We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl. The lark is but a bumpkin fowl, He sleeps in his nest till morn; But my blessing upon the jolly owl, That all night blows his horn. Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech, And match me this catch, till you swagger and screech, And drink till you wink, my merry men each; Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim, Their dark green heads lie prostrate beside their uprooted stems; Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, The tall, the strong bark of the fearless rover, There are verses can make the wild hawk pause on the wing, Like the falcon that wears the hood and the jesses, And who knows the shrill whistle of the fowler. Thou who canst mock at the scream of the drowning mariner, And the crash of the ravaged forest, And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds, When the church hath fallen in the moment of prayer; There are sounds which thou also must list, When they are chanted by the voice of the Reim-kennar. IV. Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the ocean, The widows wring their hands on the beach; Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the land, The husbandman folds his arms in Cease thou the waving of thy pinions, despair; Let the ocean repose in her dark strength; Let the thunderbolt sleep in the arCease thou the flashing of thine eye, moury of Odin; And she has struck to thee the topsail Be thou still at my bidding, viewless That she had not vail'd to a royal armada. Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest among the clouds, The battled massive tower of the Jarl of former days, And the cope-stone of the turret Is lying upon its hospitable hearth; But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller of clouds, When thou hearest the voice of the Reim-kennar. racer of the north-western heaven, Sleep thou at the voice of Norna the Reim-kennar. V. Eagle of the far north-western waters, And folded them in peace by thy side. My blessing be on thy retiring path; When thou stoopest from thy place on high, Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the unknown ocean, Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee; Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard the voice of the Reim-kennar. CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG. MARY. FAREWELL to Northmaven, Which Hacon could brave, Let the mermaidens sing them. New sweetness they'll give her Bewildering strain; But there's one who will never O were there an island, Though ever so wild, To poor mortals were given; And the hope would fix there, That should anchor in heaven. THE SONG OF HAROLD HARFA- THE sun is rising dimly red, Peep the wild dogs from the cover, Louder still the bard is singing, Jolly reapers, forward still, The joys of wassail and of fight. |