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 from the land of bondage came, An awful guide in smoke and flame. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know thy ways, But present still, though now unseen! And oh, when stoops on Judah's path And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. MEG MERRILIES' SONG AT THE BIRTH OF THE INFANT. "She sat upon a broken corner-stone in the angle of a paved apartment, part of which she had swept clean to afford a smooth space for the evolutions of her spindle. A strong sunbeam, through a lofty and narrow window, fell upon her wild dress and features, and afforded her light for her occupation; the rest of the apartment was very gloomy. Equipped in a habit which mingled the national dress of the Scottish common people with something of an eastern costume, she spun a thread drawn from wool of three different colors, black, white, and gray, by assistance of those ancient implements of housewifery now almost banished from the land, the distaff and spindle. As she spun, she sung what seemed to be a charm. Mannering, after in vain attempting to make himself master of the exact words of her song, afterwards attempted the fol lowing paraphrase of what, from a few intelligible phrases, he concluded to be its purport: Twist ye, twine ye! even so, While the mystic twist is spinning, Passions wild, and follies vain, Now they wax, and now they dwindle, ELLEN-THE LADY OF THE LAKE. But scarce again his horn he wound, Just as the hunter left his stand, And stood conceal'd amid the brake, She thought to catch the distant strain. In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace What though the sun, with ardent frown, What though upon her speech there hung A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid; With maiden pride the maid conceal'd, O need I tell that passion's name! A MORNING IN THE HIGHLANDS.-DEATH OF MORRIS.1 I shall never forget the delightful sensation with which I exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmosphere of the High At the time the celebrated Highland chieftain, Rob Roy Mac Gregor, was taken prisoner, Morris had been sent as a hostage for his personal safety, land but, in which we had passed the night so uncomfortably, for the refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the glorious beams of the rising sun, which, from a tabernacle of purple and golden clouds, were darted full on such a scene of natural romance and beauty as had never before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the valley, down which the Forth wandered on its easterly course, surrounding the beautiful detached hill, with all its garland of woods. On the right, amid a profusion of thickets, knolls, and crags, lay the bed of a broad mountain lake, lightly curled into tiny waves by the breath of the morning breeze, each glittering in its course under the influence of the sunbeams. High hills, rocks, and banks, waving with natural forests of birch and oak, formed the borders of this enchanting sheet of water; and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life and vivacity. Man alone seemed to be placed in a state of inferiority, in a scene where all the ordinary features of nature were raised and exalted. * * * It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of MacGregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged for her husband's safety, should be brought into her presence. I believe her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for fear of the consequences; but if it was so, their humane precaution only postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, a wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized features I recognized, to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaintance Morris. He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an effort to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been pollution, so that all he could do, in token of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent, and, with cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal objects, he protested, with the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design on the life of Rob Roy, whom he swore he loved and honored as his own soul. In the inconsistency of his terror, he said he was but the agent of others, and he muttered the name of Rashleigh. He prayed but for life-for life he would give all he had in the world-it was but life he asked-life, if it were to be prolonged which, being violated, excited the wrath so powerfully described in this extract. under tortures and privations; he asked only breath, though it should be drawn in the damps of the lowest caverns of their hills. It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. "I could have bid you live," she said, "had life been to you the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me-that it is to every noble and generous mind. But you-wretch! you could creep through the world unaffected by its various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly accumulating masses of crime and sorrow-you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded are betrayed-while nameless and birthless villains tread on the neck of the brave and long-descended-you could enjoy yourself, like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on garbage, while the slaughter of the brave went on around you! This enjoyment you shall not live to partake of; you shall die, base dog, and that before yon cloud has passed over the sun." She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered-I may well term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards. As the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will, dragged him along, he recognized me even in that moment of horror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, "O, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me!-save me !" I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death-shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of the lake, and the Highlanders, with their poleaxes and swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly was forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. |