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Judah's cities are forlorn,

Lebanon and Carmel shorn,

Zion trampled down with scorn.

Greece! thine ancient lamp is spent ;
Thou art thine own monument;
But the sepulchre is rent,

And a wind is on the wing,

At whose breath new heroes spring,
Sages teach, and poets sing.
Italy, thy beauties shroud
In a gorgeous evening cloud :
Thy refulgent head is bow'd.

Rome, in ruins, lovely still,
From her Capitolian hill

Bids thee, mourner! weep thy fill.

Yet where Roman genius reigns,
Roman blood must warm the veins;
-Look well, tyrants! to your chains.

Feudal realm of old romance!
Spain, thy lofty front advance,
Grasp thy shield, and couch thy lance.

At the fire-flash of thine eye,
Giant bigotry shall fly;
At thy voice, oppression die.

Lusitania from the dust

Shake thy locks; thy cause is justStrike for freedom, strike and trust.

France! I hurry from thy shore;
Thou art not the France of yore;
Thou art new-born France no more.

Great thou wast, and who like thee?
Then mad-drunk with liberty;
Now, thou'rt neither great nor free.

Sweep by Holland, like the blast;
One quick glance at Denmark cast,
Sweden, Russia ;-all is past.

Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay;
Germany! beware the day
When thy schoolmen bear the sway.

Now to thee, to thee I fly,
Fairest isle beneath the sky,
To my heart as in mine eye!

I have seen them one by one,
Every shore beneath the sun,
And my voyage now is done.
While I bid them all be bless'd,
Britain thou'rt my home-my rest;
My own land, I love thee best.


He encountered adversity with manly fortitude; asked and obtained from his creditors no other boon than time; and in about four years had actually paid off nearly £70,000 of the debt. The price of almost superhuman labour was, however, to be exacted. In 1831 he was attacked with gradual paralysis: in the autumn of that year he was prevailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the south of Europe;-the experiment was unsuccessful in restoring him to health: he returned to Abbotsford, and died there on the 21st of September, 1832. His loss was mourned, not only by his own country, but in every portion of the civilized globe; for his fame had spread throughout all parts of it: and there is scarcely a language into which his works have not been translated. The kindness of his heart, the benevolence of his disposition, the thorough goodness of his nature, were appreciated by all who had the privilege of his acquaintance; but his genius is the vast and valuable property of mankind.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the | extent. 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of sixteen, he was afflicted with ill health; and either from the weakness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occasioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed among the hills and dales of the borders-famous in war and verse"-" where," we quote from Allan Conningham, "almost every stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, or single combat; and every stream, although its waters be so inconsiderable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, became an advocate at the Scottish bar: but after a few years' attend- In person, he was tall, and had the appearance ance at the courts, quitted it, in order to devote of a powerful and robust man. His countenance himself to literature. He had, however, reached has been rendered familiar by artists in abundance; his 25th year, before he manifested any desire, or the justest notion of it is conveyed by the bust rather intention, to contend for fame in a path so of Chantry. Its expression was peculiarly benevointricate; and as he himself states, his first attempt lent; his forehead was broad, and remarkably ended in a transfer of his printed sheets to the ser-high. vice of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" obtained a more fortunate destiny; and about three years afterwards the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel completely established the fame of the writer. From the appearance of this poem, the life of the poet, until towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. Marmion issued from the press in 1808; The Lady of the Lake, in 1810; Don Roderick, in 1811; Rokeby, in 1813; The Lord of the Isles, in 1814; The Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless, appeared anonymously; the former, in 1813, and the latter, in 1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers became bankrupts; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,-not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary responsibilities to a ruinous

We have left ourselves but little space to comment upon the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; his fame as a poet was eclipsed by his reputation as a novelist; and the appearance of a star of greater magnitude drew from him, by degrees, the popularity he had so long engrossed. Yet we venture to hazard an opinion, that if it be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his prose; and that Waverley and Ivanhoe will perish before Marmion and The Lady of the Lake. We can find no rare and valuable quality in the former that we may not find in the latter. A deeply interesting and exciting story, glorious and true pictures of scenery, fine and accurate portraits of character, clear and impressive accounts of ancient customs, details of battles-satisfying to the fancy; yet capable of enduring the sternest test of truth-are to be found in the one class as well as in the other. In addition, we have the most graceful and harmonious verse; and the style is undoubtedly such as equally to delight those who possess and those who are without a refined poetical taste. 597




Dum relego, scripsisse, pudet, quia plurima cerno, Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna limi.



THE POEM, now offered to the public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes As the highly susceptible of poetical ornament. description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author, than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the ancient Metrical Romance was adopted, which allows greater latitude in this respect than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old ballad, or Metrical Ro

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THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger fill'd the Stuart's throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
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 dutchess 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 degreee;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.

When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis,† dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, rest him God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode :
And how full many a tale he knew
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch ;
And, would the noble dutchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak
He thought, e'en 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.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.

* Anne, Dutchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, repre sentative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was be headed in 1685.

+Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father to the dutchess. Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather to the dutchess and a celebrated warrior.

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