he draws faithful pictures of humble life, and seems to esteem their virtues, yet he considers them merely as the dependents of other men, and is silent on every other relation they can be supposed to hold. "He seems," says a discriminating critic, "to have never conceived the idea of a manly character in middle or humble life; and, in his novels, where an individual of these classes is introduced, he is never invested with any virtues, unless obedience, or even servility to superiors, be of the number." THE LAST MINSTREL.1 The way was long, the wind was cold, The unpremeditated lay; Old times were changed, old manners gone; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor, He pass'd where Newark's2 stately tower The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" consists of a tale in verse, supposed to be recited by a wandering minstrel who took refuge in the castle of Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685. This is a massive square tower, now unroofed and ruinous, surrounded by an outward wall, defended by round flanking turrets. It is most beautifully situated, about three miles from Selkirk, upon the banks of the Yarrow, a fierce and precipitous stream which unites with the Ettricke about a mile beneath the castle. It was built by James II. The minstrel gazed with wishful eye- The embattled portal arch he pass'd, The duchess marked his weary pace, When kindness had his wants supplied, Of good Earl Francis,' dead and gone, And how full many a tale he knew Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, He could make music to her ear. The humble boon was soon obtain'd; Was blended into harmony. 1 Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father of the duchess. Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather of the duchess, and a celebrated warrior. And then, he said, he would full fain It was not framed for village churls, He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try The long-forgotten melody. 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, With all a poet's ecstasy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE ABBEY. If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, When buttress and buttress, alternately, 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 ruined pile; LOVE OF COUNTRY. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land! From wandering on a foreign strand? O Caledonia! stern and wild, Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 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. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, The bard may draw his parting groan. LOCK KATRINE. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, One burnished sheet of living gold, High on the south, huge Ben-Venue Crags, knolls, and mounds, confus'dly hurl'd, While on the north, through middle air, 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 performedsuch 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, "Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried; Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused! "Before my breath, like blazing flax, "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. "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 |