Culross.

WHEN

THE OLD SEAPORT.

WHEN winds were wailing round me,
And Day, with closing eye,

Scowled from beneath the sullen clouds

Of pale November's sky,

In downcast meditation

All silently I stood,

Gazing the wintry ocean's

Rough, bleak, and barren flood.

A place more wild and lonely
Was nowhere to be seen;

The caverned sea-rocks beetled o'er
The billows rushing green;

There was no sound from aught around,

Save, mid the echoing caves,

The plashing and the dashing

Of the melancholy waves.

High, mid the lowering waste of sky,
The gray gulls flew in swarms;
And far beneath the surf upheaved

The sea-weed's tangly arms;

The face of Nature in a pall

Death-shrouded seemed to be,

As by St. Serf's lone tomb arose
The dirges of the sea.

In twilight's shadowy scowling,
Not far remote there lay
Thine old dim harbor, Culross,
Smoky and worn and gray;
Through far-back generations

Thy blackened piles had stood,
And, though the abodes of living men,
All looked like solitude.

Of hoar decrepitude all spake,
And ruin and decay;

Of fierce, wild times departed;
Of races passed away;

Of quaint, grim vessels beating up
Against the whelming breeze;
Of tempest-stricken mariners,

Far on the foamy seas.

It spake of swart gray-headed men,
Now dust within their graves,

Who sailed with Barton or with Spens,
To breast the trampling waves ;
And how, in shallops picturesque,
Unawed they drifted forth,
Directed by the one bright star
That points the stormy North.

And how, when windows rattled,

And strong pines bowed to earth,

Pale wives, with trembling children mute, Would cower beside the hearth,

All sadly musing on the ships

That, buffeting the breeze, Held but a fragile plank betwixt The sailor and the seas.

-

How welcome their return to home!
What wondrous tales they told,
Of birds with rainbow plumage,
And trees with fruits of gold;
Of perils in the wilderness,
Beside the lion's den;

And huts beneath the giant palms,
Where dwelt the painted men!

Mid melancholy fancies

My spirit loved to stray,

Back through the mists of hooded Eld,
Lone wandering, far away;
When dim-eyed Superstition
Upraised her eldritch croon,
And witches held their orgies
Beneath the waning moon.

Yes! through Tradition's twilight,

To days had Fancy flown

When Canmore or when Kenneth dree'd

The Celt's uneasy crown;

When men were bearded savages,

An unenlightened horde,

Mid which gleamed Cunning's scapulaire,
And War's unshrinking sword.

And, in their rusty hauberks,

Thronged past the plaided bands; And slanting lay the Norsemen's keels On ocean's dreary sands;

And on the long flat moorlands,

The cairn, with lichens gray,

Marked where their souls shrieked forth in blood, On Battle's iron day.

Between me and the sea loomed out

The ivied Abbey old,

In whose grim vaults the Bruces kneel
In marble quaint and cold;

And where, inurned, lies hid the heart
Of young Kinloss deplored,

Whose blood, by Belgium's Oster-Scheldt,
Stained Sackville's ruthless sword

Waned all these trancèd visions;

But, on my eerie sight,

Remained the old dim seaport
Beneath the scowl of night;
The sea-mews for their island cliffs
Had left the homeless sky,
And only to the dirgeful blast
The wild seas made reply.

David Macbeth Moir.

Dalmeny.

DOUN FAIR DALMENY'S ROSY DELLS.

OUN fair Dalmeny's rosy dells

DOUN

Sweet Mary wandered, sad an' wae;

The sunlicht faded owre the lea,

An' cheerless fell the simmer day.

The warblin' mavis sang nae mair,

As aft she sighed, in heavy sorrow:

"O, lanely, lanely lies my luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!

"By yonder hoary castle wa',

Where murmurs deep the dark blue sea,

I wearied sair the langsome nicht,

Till tears bedimmed my sleepless ee.

The boat gaed down by Cramond's isle,
O, weary fa' that nicht o' sorrow!

For lanely, lanely lies my luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!"

"O foaming waves, that took my luve,

My ain true-luve, beyond compare!

O, will I see his winsome form,

An' hear his dear lo'ed voice nae mair ?" Fu' deep the snaw-white surges moaned: "O, sair 's the burden o' thy sorrow;

For lanely, lanely lies thy luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!"