The land of Scott; or, Tourists' guide to Abbotsford, the country of the Tweed and its tributaries, and St. Mary's loch [by J.M. Wilson]. (Google eBook)

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Page 39 - Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed; Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honey-suckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall.
Page 34 - The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Page 19 - There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness : And silence aids — though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills ; In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude.
Page 34 - The darkened roof rose high aloof On pillars lofty and light and small; The keystone, that locked each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille : The corbells were carved grotesque and grim : And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, With base and with capital flourished around, Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound.
Page 35 - If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die...
Page 35 - When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go— but go alone the while — Then view St. David's ruined pile ; And, home' returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair ! II.
Page 18 - Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round...
Page 18 - O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness...
Page 43 - Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, Waited the beck of the warders ten ; Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, Stood saddled in stable day and night, Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow, And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow ; A hundred more fed free in stall : Such was the custom of Branksome Hall.
Page 39 - Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse. Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home returning, fill'd the hall With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.

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