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"Now, what do you sell, John Camplejohn,

In Bay Street by the sea,

Tinged with that true and native blue
Of lapis lazuli?

"Look from your door, and tell me now
The color of the sea.

Where can I buy that wondrous dye,
And take it home with me?

"And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea,

Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free

"Of the bearers who go up and down,

Silent as mystery,

Burden on head, with naked tread,

In the white streets by the sea?

"And where can I buy, John Camplejohn,
In Bay Street by the sea,

The sunlight's fall on the old pink wall,
Or the gold of the orange-tree?"

"Ah, that is more than I've heard tell

In Bay Street by the sea,

Since I began, my roving man,

A trafficker to be.

"As sure as I'm John Camplejohn,
And Bay Street's by the sea,

Those things for gold have not been sold,
Within my memory.

"But what would you give, my roving man

From countries over-sea,

For the things you name, the life of the same,
And the power to bid them be?"

"I'd give my hand, John Camplejohn,
In Bay Street by the sea,

For the smallest dower of that dear power

To paint the things I see."

"My roving man, I never heard,

On any land or sea

Under the sun, of any one

Could sell that power to thee.”

"Tis sorry news, John Camplejohn,
If this be destiny,

That every mart should know the art,
Yet none can tell it me.

"But look you, here's the grace of God:
There's neither price nor fee,

Duty nor toll, that can control
The power to love and see.

"To each his luck, John Camplejohn,
Say I. And as for me,

Give me the pay of an idle day

In Bay Street by the sea."

Ba ha' man, water between Cuba and

the Bahama Islands.

dow' er, gift.

lapis lazu li, a beautiful azure stone. mart, market.

traf' fick er, one who buys and sells.

THE OLD MINSTREL.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

(From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel.")

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;

His withered cheek and tresses gray
Seemed 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 oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne.
He caroled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in halls, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;
The bigots of the iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
He passed 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 passed,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.

The Duchess marked 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!

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 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 obtained;
The aged Minstrel audience gained.
But when he reached the room of state
Where she with all her ladies sate,
Perchance he wished 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.

It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;

He had played it to King Charles the Good
When he kept court in Holyrood;

And much he wished, yet feared, to try

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,

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 lightened up his faded eye

With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:

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