Through groves of palm Sigh gales of balm, Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing. O wake and live! No dreams can give A shadowed bliss, the real excelling; No longer sleep, From lattice peep, And list the tale that Love is telling! ROSABELLE 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! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. '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 nigh. 'Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall. ''Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.' --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 cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd 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 The lordly line of high Saint 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 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. PROUD MAISIE Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. 'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?'-- 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' 'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?'-- 'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. 'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.' LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER THOMAS CAMPBELL