How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!
So sweet the memory left behind,
Where loved ones breathe their last

And lo! above the dews of night
The vesper star appears;
So faith lights up the mourner's heart,
Whose eyes are dim with tears.

Night falls, but soon the morning light
Its glories shall restore;
And thus the eyes that sleep in death
Shall wake to close no more.

Peabody.

Daylight is on the hills, and we are off once more down the Tweed, which gathers volume by accessions from tributary streams, and mirrors in its clear bosom many a happy home, nestling among the trees on its banks. We pass Coldstream, on the north bank of the Tweed, from its proximity to England a sort of Gretna Green in former times, where Lord Brougham was married at one of the hotels; whence we journey to Tillmouth; at which place the Till, a narrow, deep, sullen stream, flows into the Tweed. Beneath Twisel Castle, which stands upon its banks, you see the ancient bridge by which the English crossed the Till before the battle of Flodden.

—"They cross'd
The Till, by Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They drew into the deep defile;
Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see,
Still pouring down the rocky den
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim wood glen
Standards on standards, men on men
In slow succession still,
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And passing on, in ceaseless march
To gain the opposing hill."

Marmion.

Flodden Field, on which the "flowers of the forest," were cut down so mercilessly, is not far from here, and the whole region seems invested with an air of "dule and wae."

"Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for once by guile won the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.
The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.

"We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."[181]