MARMION DYING.

Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those sweet hues that once it bore; Though Evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree-
Are they still sweet as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas! the warped and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply?
To aching eyes each landscape lours,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby, or Eden's bowers,

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Marmion-ying.

HEY parted, and alone he lay;

Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured,-" Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst?"

O Woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;

When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou

Scarce were the piteous accents said,

When, with the Baron's casque, the maid

To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears-
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountains wide,
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn? behold her mark

A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

Above, some half-worn letters say,

Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. prag.
for the kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey .
Who built this. cross. and. well.
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head-
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

Д

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen"-

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen"-

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.