Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said "I love thee true."

'She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lulléd me asleep,

And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried-"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapéd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

J. Keats.

EARL MARCH LOOK'D ON HIS
DYING CHILD

EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child,
And, smit with grief to view her-
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour
His coming to discover:

And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
And she look'd on her lover-

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling-
And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.

T. Campbell.

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?'
- When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?'

-The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

'The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing

Welcome, proud lady.'

Sir W. Scott.

ROSABELLE

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

‘The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

'Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'

"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

-O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold-
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

And each Saint Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Sir W. Scott.