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 rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Sir W. Scott

XLVIII

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT

THE and let's away':

HE stream was smooth as glass, we said, 'Arise

The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gayly took

our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,

The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;

The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away. When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds ; the sun, superbly large,

Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on

our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we

see

The spreading river's either bank, and surging dis

tantly

There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far

away.

Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find

the bay!

The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our

sight

The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,

When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded

ghost?

What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?

Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every

oar away.

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the

bay?

R. Garnett

XLIX

VERSES

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez

I

AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage,
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Lies hid in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial, endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest himself lags behind

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought,
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

W. Cowper

L

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

H, to be in England
Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the white-throat builds, and all the swallowsHark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dew-drops- at the bent spray's edgeThat's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could re-capture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower,

- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

R. Browning