"
"Say, my page, what means this singing?
Notes so sad, some ill betide;"
"In the village, crowds are bringing
From the chapel, home a bride."
"Say then, why so slowly passes
Yon dark-rob'd and silent train?"
"From the saying bridal-masses,
Monks are coming o'er the plain."
"Speak then, why I now behold it;
Whence yon banner's milk-white hue?"
"Ask no further, they unfold it
To the bride an honour due."
"Say, my page, what means that writing
Graven on yon marble-stone?"
"'Tis the youth and maiden plighting
Love to one, and one alone."
"How, my page, that name the dearest?
See, and true its meaning tell."
"Know, and tremble as thou hearest,
"'Twas for secret love she fell."
"What! my page, if thus 'tis written,
If for love she dar'd to die,
Bertha dead! if thus 'tis written,
As she perish'd, so will _I_."
H.
* * * * *
SCOTCH ECONOMY.
(_To the Editor._)
The amusing letter of _S.S._ in No. 536, of _The Mirror_, has but so
very recently met my eyes, that I have been obliged unavoidably to allow
some weeks to elapse ere I noticed it. Indeed, to advert to it at all, I
should not have considered necessary, but that your correspondent seems
to imply a doubt as to the accuracy of my assertion, in the article
"Shavings," (vide No.
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