The wind hath blown a gale all day; On the deck the Rover takes his stand; "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.” They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, ROBERT SOUTHEY.1 1 ROBERT SOUTHEY, the son of a linen draper of Bristol, was n in 1774, educated at Bristol and Westminster, and at Bao College, Oxford. He tried the law, held a few offices, and en betook himself to literature, to which he devoted his life. he was made poet-laureate in 1813, and held this post until his death, in 1843. His works, both in rose and in verse, are very umerous, and are nearly all unread at the present dav THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. AT the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe! "What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing? "A tower is fallen, a star is set! Alas! alas for Celin!" Three times they knock, three times they cry, — and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hol low porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wail ing, For all have heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!" Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting stood; around the nobles The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ; But now the nobles all lament the ladies are bewail ing For he was Granada's darling knight. for Celin!" "Alas! alas Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry for Celin!" "Alas! alas O! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail; And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound "Alas! alas for Celin !" The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door; one maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weep ing sore; Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue; Before each gate the bier stands still, then burste the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low "Alas! alas for Celin!" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry, Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye: 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know! With one deep shriek, she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die Celin!" Alas! alas for J. G. LOCKHART.1 1 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, born in 1794, in Lanarkshire, Scotland, was educated at Glasgow, and admitted to the Scotch bar in 1816. He contributed to the magazines of the day, and his literary propensities were confirmed by his marriage, in 1820, with Sophia, the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott. In 1826 he removed to London and accepted the editorship of the London Quarterly Review, a position which he retained until 1853. He wrote many essays, and some biographical and historical works as well as romances. His best works are his life of Scott and nis translations of the ancient Spanish ballads He died in 1854. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH. PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Sweet Robin sits on the bush, "Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" "When six braw gentlemen "Who makes the bridal bed, That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Welcome, proud lady." SIR WALTER SCOTT. Heart of Mid-Lothian. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. |