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234

The minstrel gazed with wishful eye-
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step at last

The embattled portal arch he pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!

And would the noble duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain?

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain'd;
The aged minstrel audience gain'd.
But, when he reach'd the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain-
He tried to tune his harp in vain!
The pitying duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,

And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head:

But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighten'd up his faded eye

With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:

The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his heart responsive rung,

DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE ABBEY.

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 ruin'd 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 ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

The same.

LOVE OF COUNTRY-SCOTLAND.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Still as I view each well-known scene,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

Seems as to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

The same.

TIME.

The window of a turret, which projected at an angle with the wall, and thus came to be very near Lovel's apartment, was half open, and from that quarter he heard again the same music which had probably broken short his dream. With its visionary character it had lost much of its charms-it was now nothing more than an air on the harpsichord, tolerably well performed-such is the caprice of imagination as affecting the fine arts. A female voice sung, with some taste and great simplicity, something between a song and a hymn, in words to the following effect :

"Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle, so stern and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away?"-

"Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried;

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So long enjoy'd, so oft misused

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!
"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away:
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem mine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,

When TIME and thou shalt part for ever.'

REBECCA'S HYMN.

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Antiquary.

It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn, which we have ventured thus to translate into English:

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out of the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands

Return'd the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice between.

No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know THY ways, And thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of THEE, a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. But THOU hast said, The blood of goat, The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, an humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice.

Ivanhoe.

ELLEN THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak

That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay.

With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,

In listening mood she seem'd to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace

Of finer form, or lovelier face!

What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brownWhat though no rule of courtly grace

To measured mood had train'd her pace

A foot more light, a step more true,

Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread:

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue-

Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!

A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;

Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;-
O need I tell that passion's name!

PATERNAL AFFECTION.

Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!

The same.

AN HOUR WITH THEE.

An hour with thee! When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care?
New griefs, which coming hours unfold,
And sad remembrance of the old?

One hour with Thee!

One hour with thee! When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain
His labour on the sultry plain;

And more than cave or sheltering bough
Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow?
One hour with Thee!

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