"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"
"Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch ?"

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore,
For many a southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said;

Nor added the Baron a word :

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turned,

And oft to himself he said

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep

It cannot give up the dead!"

It was near the ringing of the matin-bell,

The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,

On the eve of good St John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away, away!" she cried,

For the holy Virgin's sake;" "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side, But, lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon tree, for long nights three,

In bloody grave have lain ;

The mass and the death prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain,

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite, on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting place, for a certain space,

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had'st thou not conjured me so."

Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd;

How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved or art thou lost ?"

The vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;

So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."

• Place of Rendezvous

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score of fingers four,
Remains on that board impress'd;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun;

There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk who speaks to noneThat nun was Smaylho'me's lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.

THE RHYMER'S GLEN.

THIS romantic little dell is formed by Huntly burn, a small rivulet that falls into the Tweed about a mile above Melrose, and takes its rise from Cauldshiels Loch, a mountain tarn that forms a splendid waterpiece amid the young forests of Abbotsford; a considerable portion of its course is through scenes of wilder beauty than are common to most Scottish burnies, its banks being rocky and steep, and beautifully fringed with all the shrubs and wild flowers common to the braes of Scotland, and where the soil has been found sufficiently amenable, it has been further ornamented with oaks, firs, and otherforest trees, which are fast towering above the original copsewood.

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The burn itself leaps sportively over its rocky bed, forming numerous tiny cascades, and taking many a fantastic turn. A footpath winds along the bottom of the dell, again and again crossing the burn, and occasionally, with rocky steps, surmounting some obstructing promontory. A mile or more of its course is through scenery of this character, till issuing from the ravine, near the beautiful villa of Huntly burn, its banks, on either side, assume a softer appearance, and are laid out into walks and shrubbries, in a style that indicates no ordinary degree of taste. These lovely walks extend along both sides of the stream till it passes Chiefswood cottage, which has already been mentioned as having formed, at one time, the residence of Capt. Hamilton, and more recently that of Mr Lockhart. On leaving the grounds of Chiefswood, it murmurs slowly along, as if reluctant to leave the romantic cliffs and the gay garniture that hath hitherto adorned its banks. It is supposed by some to have obtained the name of the Rhymer's Glen, from being the scene where Thomas of Ercildoune held