No dread of death, if with us die our foes, Lord Byron. 123 A SONG OF THE SEA A WET sheet and a flowing sea, And fills the white and rustling sail Away the good ship flies, and leaves Oh for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high, my lads, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, The wind is piping loud, my boys, While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. Allan Cunningham. 124 ROSABELLE (The Lay of the Last Minstrel.) OH listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 'The blackening wave is edged with white; 'Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?' "Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir "Tis not because the ring they ride, 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 moonbeam. 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 Seemed all on fire within, around, And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each Saint 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 Walter Scott. 125 TO A SKYLARK HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire, The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy winged thieves. |