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For all of wonderful and wild
And much of wild and wonderful,
Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransacked the graves of warriors old,
Their faulchions wrenched from corpses' hold,
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arms!
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where by sweet glen and greenwood tree,
He learned a milder minstrelsy;
Yet something of the Northern spell
Mixed with the softer numbers well.
O 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 f And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
"The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch * and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigb,
"Last night the gifted Seer did view
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:
"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
But that my Ladye-mother there
* Inch, Isle.
"'Tis not because the ring they ride,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
O'er Roslin all that dreary night
'Twas broader than the watch-'fire light,
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Seemed all on fire, within, aroutid,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Each one the holy vault doth hold—
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.