"'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 filled by Rosabelle."

O'er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
"T was broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moon-beam.

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 caverned Hawthornden.

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie;

Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

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

And glimmered 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 St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle !
Each one the holy vault doth hold –

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell ;
But the sea-caves and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle !

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE.

THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,

Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller

With soft and even pulse! nor ever cease

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,

As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.

I

Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here! here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

How does the water come down at Lodore?
Here it comes sparkling,

And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,

Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting strong;
Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,

Showering and springing.

Eddying and whisking,

Sporting and frisking,

Turning and twisting

Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting

With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And chilling and splitting,

And shining and twining,

And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and flittering,
And gathering and feathering,

And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And juggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling, and doubling,
Dividing, and gliding, and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering. And gleaming and streaming, and steaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing, and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping, and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling, and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating, and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying, and praying and spraying,
Advancing and prancing, and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping, and bumping and
jumping,

And dashing and flashing, and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down to Lodore.