"The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain blast was still,
As again I watched the secret pair,
On the lonesome beacon hill.

"And I heard her name the midnight hour,
And name this holy eye;

And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower;
Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"He lifts his spear with bold Buccleuch ;
His lady is all alone;

The door she 'll undo to her knight so true,
On the eve of good Saint John.'

I cannot come; I must not come ;

I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone;
In thy bower I may not be.'

"Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou should'st not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,

Is worth the whole summer's day.

"And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strewed on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone*, and by holy St. John,

I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'

"Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot' And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,

And my foot-step he would know.'

"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east!
For to Dryburght the way he has ta'en;
And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'

"He turned him around, and grimly he frowned;
Then he laughed right scornfully-

He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,
May as well say mass for me.

* The black rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity.

+ Dryburgh Abbey is beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, and is now the seat of the right honourable the earl of Buchan. It belonged to the order of Premon

stratenses.

• At

At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,

In thy chamber will I be.'

With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,

And no more did I see."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,
From the dark to the blood-red high ;

Now, tell me the mein of the knight thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die!"

His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light;
His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,
And his crest was a branch of the yew."

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,
All under the Eildon-tree*."

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!
For I heard her name his name;

And that lady bright, she called the knight,

Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

"The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,

From high blood-red to pale

The grave is deep and dark-and the corpse is stiff and stark

So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,

That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate,
And he mounted the narrow stair,

To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on her wait,
He found his lady fair.

* Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three conical summits, immediately above the town of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a magnificent monastery. Eillon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies.

That

That lady sat in mournful mood; ·

Looked over hill and dale;

Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's* wood,
And all down Tiviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!".
"Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch?"

"The Ancram Moor is, red with gore,
For many a southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said;

Nor added the Baron a word :

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,
And so did her moody lord,

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,
And oft to himself he said-

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deepIt cannot give up the dead !"

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St John,

The lady looked through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there—
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away, away!" she cried,
"For the holy Virgin's sake!"
"Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;
But, lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three,

In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,

Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,

For a space is doomed to dwell.

* Mertoun is the beautiful seat of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden.

1

"At our trysting-place *, for a certain space,
I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower,
Had'st thou not conjured me so."

Love mastered fear-her brow she crossed;
"How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved, or art thou lost ?”.
The Vision shood his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;
So bid thy lord believe :
That lawless love is guilt above,
This awful sign receive."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun:
There is a Monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That Monk, who speaks to none-
That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
The Monk the bold Baron.

H

The BIRDS of SCOTLAND.

[From Mr. GRAHAME'S POEMS.]

TOW sweet the first sound of the CUCKOO's note !

Whence is the magic pleasure of the sound? How do we long recal the very tree,

Or bush, near which we stood, when on the ear

The unexpected note, cuckoo! again,

And yet again, came down the budding vale?
It is the voice of spring among the trees;

It tells of lengthening days, of coming blooms;
It is the symphony of many a song.

* Trysting-place-place of rendezvous.

But, there, the stranger flies close to the ground,
With hawklike pinion, of a leaden blue.
Poor wanderer! from hedge to hedge she flies,
And trusts her offspring to another's care:
The sooty-plum'd hedge-sparrow frequent acts
The foster-mother, warming into life

The youngling, destined to supplant her own.
Meanwhile, the cuckoo sings her idle song,
Monotonous, yet sweet, now here, now there,
Herself but rarely seen; nor does she cease
Her changeless note, until the broom, full blown,
Give warning, that her time for flight is come.
Thus, ever journeying on, from land to land,
She, sole of all the innumerous feathered tribes,
Passes a stranger's life, without a home.

Home! word delightful to the heart of man,
And bird, and beast!-small word, yet not the less
Significant:-Comprising ail!

Whatever to affection is most dear,

Is all included in that little word,-

Wife, children, father, mother, brother, friend.
At mention of that word, the seaman, clinging
Upon the dipping yard-arm, sees afar

The twinkling fire, round which his children cow'r,
And speak of him, counting the months, and weeks,
That must pass dreary o'er, ere he return,
He sighs to view the sea-bird's rapid wing.

O, had I but the envied power to chuse
My home, no sound of city bell should reach
My ear; not even the cannon's thundering roar.
Far in a vale, be there my low abode,

Embowered in woods where many a songster chaunts.
And let me now indulge the airy dream!

A bow-shot off in front a river flows,

That, during summer drought, shallow and clear,
Chides with its pebbly bed, and, murmuring,
Invites forgetfulness; half hid it flows,

Now between rocks, now through a bush-girt glade,
Now sleeping in a pool, that laves the roots
Of overhanging trees, whose drooping boughs
Dip midway over in the darkened stream;
While ever and anon, upon the breeze,

The dash of distant waterfall is borne.

A range of hills, with craggy summits crowned,
And furrowed deep, with many a bosky cleugh,
Wards off the northern blast: There skims the hawk
Forth from her cliff, eyeing the furzy siope
That joins the mountain to the smiling vale.

Through