With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,

And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,

Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking. Careless he stept, where friend and foe

Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it:

He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him;

And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,

As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it:

Before I would take that sword from thine hand,

My own life's blood should dye it.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,

Who in life hath trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping!
L. E. Landon.-Born 1802, Died 1839.

The maiden stood on her highest tower,
And watch'd her knight depart;
She dash'd her tear aside, but her hand
Might not still her beating heart.

All day she watch'd the distant clouds
Float on the distant air,
A crucifix upon her neck,

And on her lips a prayer.

The sun went down, and twilight came With her banner of pearlin grey, And then afar she saw a band

Wind down the vale their way.

They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks

Were their crimson colours borne, And a stranger pennon droop'd beneath, But that was bow'd and torn.

But she saw no white steed first in the ranks,
No rider that spurr'd before;

But the evening shadows were closing fast,
And she could see no more.

She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower
In haste to reach the hall,

And as she sprang down the winding stair,
She heard the drawbridge fall.

A hundred harps their welcome rung,
Then paused, as if in fear;
The ladye enter'd the hall, and saw
Her true knight stretch'd on his bier.

L. E. Landon.-Born 1802, Died 1839.

1468.-THE TROUBADOUR.

He raised the golden cup from the board,
It sparkled with purple wealth,
He kiss'd the brim her lip had prest,
And drank to his ladye's health.

Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name,
To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine;
Ever the smile of beauty should light
The victor's blood-red wine.

There are some flowers of brightest bloom
Amid thy beautiful hair,

Give me those roses, they shall be
The favour I will wear.

For ere their colour is wholly gone,

Or the breath of their sweetness fled,
They shall be placed in thy curls again,
But dyed of a deeper red.

The warrior rode forth in the morning light,
And beside his snow-white plume
Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,
Like pearls on their crimson bloom.

1469.-LAST VERSES OF L. E. L.

A star has left the kindling sky-
A lovely northern light;
How many planets are on high,
But that has left the night.

I miss its bright familiar face,
It was a friend to me;
Associate with my native place,
And those beyond the sea.

It rose upon our English sky,

Shone o'er our English land,
And brought back many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.

It seem'd to answer to my thought,
It call'd the past to mind,

And with its welcome presence brought
All I had left behind.

The voyage it lights no longer ends
Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more?

Fresh from the pain it was to part

How could I bear the pain?
Yet strong the omen in my heart
That says-We meet again.

Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove,
Friends, home, and native earth.

Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes
Still turn'd the first on thee,
Till I have felt a sad surprise,
That none look'd up with me.

But thou hast sunk upon the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown;

I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.

Farewell! ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light!
What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write!

Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be;
Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.

Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,

And little needed too;

My friends! I need not look beyond
My heart to look for you.

L. E. Landon.-Born 1802, Died 1839.

1470.-ADDRESS TO MISS AGNES
BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with

tears

O'er us have glided almost sixty years

Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were

seen

By those whose eyes long closed in death have been

Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather
The slender harebell on the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that cross'd our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew ;
And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright,
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within.
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long perspective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years;

And yet through every stage I still can trace Thy vision'd form, from childhood's morning grace

To woman's early bloom-changing, how

soon!

To the expressive glow of woman's noon;
And now to what thou art, in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment-whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,

Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor-
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief and temper

keen,

Well may it please me, in life's later scene, To think what now thou art and long to me hast been.

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book,

That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, What is this story all thine own invention ?"

Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began;
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy
(A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not conceal'd) did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went, the greater favour gain;
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing
tide,

I from the busy world had shrunk aside.
And now, in later years, with better grace,
Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place
With those whom nearer neighbourhood have
made

The friendly cheerers of our evening shade.

With thee my humours, whether grave or

gay,

Or gracious or untoward, have their way.
Silent if dull-oh, precious privilege!-
I sit by thee; or if, cull'd from the page
Of some huge ponderous tome which, but
thyself,

None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf,
Thou read'st me curious passages to speed
The winter night, I take but little heed,
And thankless say, I cannot listen now,"
'Tis no offence; albeit, much do I owe

To these, thy nightly offerings of affection,
Drawn from thy ready talent for selection;
For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift
The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift.

By daily use and circumstance endear'd, Things are of value now that once appear'd Of no account, and without notice pass'd, Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast; To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,

Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;

After each stated nightly absence, met
To see thee by the morning table set,
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream
Which sends from saucer'd cup its fragrant
steam:

To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand,
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand
For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee

come,

In furry garment lapt, with spatter'd feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;
Ay, even o'er things like these soothed age has
thrown

A sober charm they did not always own-
As winter hoarfrost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedgeweed sparkle to the day
In magnitude and beauty, which, bereaved
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived.

The change of good and evil to abide, As partners link'd, long have we, side by side,

Our earthly journey held; and who can say
How near the end of our united way?
By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft
Will she remain-the lonely pilgrim left.
If thou art taken first, who can to me
Like sister, friend, and home-companion be?
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,
Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall
mourn?

And if I should be fated first to leave

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,

And he above them all, so truly proved
A friend and brother, long and justly loved,
There is no living wight, of woman born,
Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt

mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow
caring-

Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,
An unadorn'd, but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long de-
lay'd.

Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd,

The latest spoken still are deem'd the best:

Few are the measured rhymes I now may write;

These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite.

Joanna Baillie.-Born 1762, Died 1851.

1471.-THE BLACK COCK.
Good-morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek;
Thy crimson moon and azure eye-
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee slowly cowering through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things, to light of day,
Look shortly forth and break away.
One fleeting moment of delight

I warm'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist, red beams the day;
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;
Thou art already on the wing.

Joanna Baillie.-Born 1762, Died 1851.

1472.-THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

All white hung the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream;

And pale from its banks the long icicles gleam;

The first peep of morning just peers through the sky,

And here, at thy door, gentle Mary, am I.

With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the light,

The one that best loves thee stands first in thy sight;

Then welcomed, dear maid, with my gift let me be,

A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part,

The new year before it I gave thee my heart; And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again, When only this hand and a blessing remain !

Though time should run on with his sack full of care,

And wrinkle thy cheek, maid, and whiten thy hair,

Yet still on this morn shall my offering be
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Joanna Baillie.-Born 1762, Died 1851.

1473.-THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting fair,

Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

*

*

*

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay:
For then beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And londly sings thy busy pur,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage-fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,

Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper-ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger, at his ruthless play?
Or is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becomest a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour'd playmate been,

Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with savoury food.

Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast,
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

Joanna Baillie.-Born 1762, Died 1851.

1474.-OPENING OF THE "SONGS OF ZION."

Harp of Zion, pure and holy,
Pride of Judah's eastern land,
May a child of guilt and folly

Strike thee with a feeble hand?
May I to my bosom take thee,

Trembling from the prophet's touch,
And with throbbing heart awake thee
To the strains I love so much?
I have loved thy thrilling numbers,

Since the dawn of childhood's day;
Since a mother soothed my slumbers
With the cadence of thy lay;
Since a little blooming sister

Clung with transport round my knee,
And my glowing spirit bless'd her

With a blessing caught from thee! Mother-sister-both are sleeping

Where no heaving hearts respire, Whilst the eve of age is creeping

Round the widow'd spouse and sire. He and his, amid their sorrow,

Find enjoyment in thy strain: Harp of Zion, let me borrow

Comfort from thy chords again!

William Knox.-Born 1789, Died 1825.

1475.-DIRGE OF RACHEL. And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land,

Beneath her lonely oak of weeping; With mouldering heart and withering hand, The sleep of death for ever sleeping. The spring comes smiling down the vale, The lilies and the roses bringing; But Rachel never more shall hail

The flowers that in the world are springing.

The summer gives his radiant day,

And Jewish dames the dance are treading; But Rachel on her couch of clay,

Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. The autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, And reapers to the field is calling; But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling. The winter sends his drenching shower,

And sweeps his howling blast around her; But earthly storms possess no power

To break the slumber that hath bound her.
William Knox.-Born 1789, Died 1825.

I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art
Hath made my spirit holy.

Her eye-as soft and blue as even,

When day and night are calmly meetingBeams on my heart like light from heaven, And purifies its beating.

The accents fall from Tamar's lip

Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping, When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

And cannot cease their sipping.

The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,
For ever coming-ever going,
May well the spotless fount bespeak
That sets the stream aflowing.

Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast
Even like the harp-string's holiest measures,
When dreams the soul of lands of rest
And everlasting pleasures.

Then ask not what hath changed my heart,
Or where hath fled my youthful folly-

I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art
Hath made my spirit holy.

William Knox.-Born 1789, Died 1825.

My song hath closed, the holy dream
That raised my thoughts o'er all below,
Hath faded like the lunar beam,

And left me 'mid a night of woe-
To look and long, and sigh in vain
For friends I ne'er shall meet again.
And yet the earth is green and gay;

And yet the skies are pure and bright; But, 'mid each gleam of pleasure gay,

Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight;
For weak is now the tenderest tongue
That might my simple songs have sung.
And like Gilead's drops of balm,

They for a moment soothed my breast;
But earth hath not a power to calm
My spirit in forgetful rest,
Until I lay me side by side
With those that loved me, and have died.

They died-and this a world of woe,
Of anxious doubt and chilling fear;

I wander onward to the tomb,
With scarce a hope to linger here:
But with a prospect to rejoin
The friends beloved, that once were mine.

William Knox.-Born 1789, Died 1825

1476.-A VIRTUOUS WOMAN. Thou asketh what hath changed my heart, And where hath fled my youthful folly?