Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy1 and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.2

1 First Edit. "Both vaulted crypt," etc.

2 The beautiful chapel of Roslin is still in tolerable preservation. It was founded in 1446, by William St. Clair, Prince of Orkney, Duke of Oldenburgh, Earl of Caithness and Stratherne, Lord St. Clair, Lord Niddesdale, Lord Admiral of the Scottish Seas, Lord Chief Justice of Scotland, Lord Warden of the three Marches, Baron of Roslin, Pentland, Pentland-moor, etc., Knight of the Cockle, and of the Garter (as is affirmed), High Chancellor, Chamberlain, and Lieutenant of Scotland. This lofty person, whose titles, says Godscroft, might weary a Spaniard, built the castle of Roslin, where he resided in princely splendour, and founded the chapel, which is in the most rich and florid style of Gothic architecture. Among the profuse carvings on the pillars and buttresses, the rose is frequently introduced, in allusion to the name, with which, however, the flower has no connection; the etymology being Rosslinnhe, the promontory of the linn, or waterfall. The chapel is said to appear on fire previous to the death of any of his descendants. This superstition, noticed by Slezer in his Theatrum Scotic, and alluded to in the text, is probably of Norwegian derivation, and may have been imported by the Earls of Orkney into their Lothian dominions. The tomb-fires of the north are mentioned in most of the Sagas.

The Barons of Roslin were buried in a vault beneath the chapel floor. The manner of their interment is thus described by Father Hay, in the MS. history already quoted.

"Sir William Sinclair, the father, was a leud man.

He kept

a miller's daughter, with whom, it is alledged, he went to Ireland; yet I think the cause of his retreat was rather occasioned by the Presbyterians, who vexed him sadly, because of

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair —
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. 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 St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,1 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

His son, Sir William, died

his religion being Roman Catholic. during the troubles, and was interred in the chapel of Roslin the very same day that the battle of Dunbar was fought. When my good-father was buried, his (i. e. Sir William's) corpse seemed to be entire at the opening of the cave; but when they came to touch his body, it fell into dust. He was laying in his armour, with a red velvet cap on his head, on a flat stone; nothing was spoiled except a piece of the white furring that went round the cap, and answered to the hinder part of the head. All his predecessors were buried after the same manner, in their armour: late Rosline, my good-father, was the first that was buried in a coffin, against the sentiments of King James the Seventh, who was then in Scotland, and several other persons well versed in antiquity, to whom my mother would not hearken, thinking it beggarly to be buried after that manner. The great expenses she was at in burying her husband occasioned the sumptuary acts which were made in the following Parliament."

1 First Edit. "But the Kelpie rung and the Mermaids sung."

XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,1

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all:

It was not eddying mist or fog,

Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;
Of no eclipse had sages told;

And yet, as it came on apace,

Each one could scarce his neighbour's face,
Could scarce his own stretch'd hand behold.

A secret horror check'd the feast,

And chill'd the soul of every guest;

Even the high Dame stood half aghast,

She knew some evil on the blast;

The elvish page fell to the ground,

And, shuddering, mutter'd, «Found! found! found!"

XXV.

Then sudden, through the darken'd air

A flash of lightning came;

So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seem'd on flame.

Glanced every rafter of the hall,

Glanced every shield upon the wall;

Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone,

Were instant seen, and instant gone;

1I observe a great poetic climax, designed, doubtless, in the two last of these songs, from the first. — Anna Seward.