"Rome shall perish-write that word In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

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Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

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"Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the

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progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

"Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rush'd to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you!"

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35

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And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.

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The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd :—
Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair

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Amidst that pilgrim band;

Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?

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No-'twas a faith's pure shrine.

Yes, call that holy ground,

Which first their brave feet trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they found

Freedom to worship God!

SIR WALTER SCOTT: 1771-1832.

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.

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"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 forbode 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 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 cavern'd Hawthornden.

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 bold
Lie 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 ;

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

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !

His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

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The eager pack, from couples freed,

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Dash through the brush, the brier, the brake;

While answering hound, and horn, and steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,

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And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd:

But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again!

When, spurring from opposing sides,

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.

Who was each Stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.