THE sun shone fair on Mounie's wall,
And gay was sweet Deeside,
When lightly from her father's hall
Stept forth a bonnie bride.
Her dress was of the satin white,
And pearlins rich and rare,
A silken snood of ribbons bright
Bound up her waving hair.
A white rose from her nurse's cot Bloomed in her breast that day, And from her own child-garden plot A fragrant myrtle spray.
With fluttering heart went Isabel,
Blushing, 'mid smiles and tears,
In her own home thenceforth to dwell
Through all life's chequered years.
But first that myrtle branch of green She planted tenderly,
And watched it day by day, I ween, For it grew fair to see.
The summer sunbeams loved to steal
Within her chamber bright,
Where the low music of her wheel
Went whirring on at night.
And there the myrtle bloomed and grew
To be a stately tree,
And to its white flowers often flew
The busy honey bee.
And little birds would often rest
Upon its fragrant bough,
And every little featherd breast
Sang songs of long ago.
Till time so gently, year by year,
As summers passed away,
On Isabel's dark silken hair
Laid his soft veil of gray.
She oft would sit on sunset eves,
In the bright golden rays,
Hearing the rustling of the leaves,
Thinking on youth's sweet days.
Till she could almost deem a thrill
Passed through the myrtle lone,
As though its life, for good or ill,
Were bound up with her own.
At length she sickened, and aside
Sadly her wheel was laid :
The myrtle from that time and tide
Began to droop and fade.
There came a mournful day and hour,
When the meek lady bright
Lay, like a gentle faded flower,
Swathed in her shroud of white.
They sought the myrtle, thence to glean One last wreath for her head;
But its sweet leaves no more were green, The myrtle, too, was dead.*
ROSE in my garden blowing,
White rose of royal bloom,
In June's bright morning growing,
Fresh in thy sweet perfume,
Thou wakest strange old memories
Of Scotland's wars and peace,
When like two sisters flourished
White rose and fleur-de-lys.
And other thoughts thou bring'st me
Of sweeter, homelier power,
For my dear great-grandmother
Loved well the royal flower.
She sought its early blossom
In Drum's old garden dear,
Each tenth of June, the birthday
Of the old Chevalier.
And thence she sent sweet butter,
And many things for food,
To Charlie's camp, when it was pitched
Near to old Holyrood.
A maiden of our kindred
Once gave the Prince this flower,
And in return he gave her
The white cockade he wore.
The lily has a blessing
Beyond this fleeting hour, Its white buds smile, confessing The Resurrection's power. From its root dry and withered The blossoms rise and bloom, Fresh as when they were gathered From our dear Lady's tomb.
Alas! my rose of brightness,
My rose of royal mien,
Grieve we that in thy beauty
Thou wert not evergreen ?
Thy fallen leaves are strewing
Full many a gory plain,
And tears the turf bedewing
Wake not the dead again.
|