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Ha Rp of the North I that mouldering longhast hung

On the witch elm that shades St Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—

O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep! 'Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep!

Not thus in ancient days of Caledon,

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. At each according pause was heard aloud

Thine ardent symphony, sublime and high 1 Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd;

For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless

O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand

That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; O wake once more! though scarce my skill command

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay; Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,

The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again 1


Hasp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending, lu twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard-elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing Ine,

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp I
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,

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And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,

Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the air has waked thy string!
•Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire,

'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell—
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell—
And now, 'tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare-thee-well!

Sir Walter Scott.


It was a' for our rightfu' king

We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' king

We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,

We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,

And a' is done in vain;
My love and native land, fareweel,

For I maun cross the main, my dear,

For I maun cross the main.

I turn'd me right and round about

Upon the Irish shore,
An' ga'e my bridle-reins a shake,

With ' Adieu for evermore, my dear,'

With ' Adieu for evermore.'

The sodger frae the wars returns,

The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,

Never to meet again, my dear,

Never to meet again.

When day is gane an' night is come,

An' a' folk bound in sleep,
O think on him that's far awa',

The lee-lang night, an' weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, an' weep.

* The author ofthis ballad is said to be Captain Ogilvio of the home of Inverquharity, wlto accompanied the deposed Jas. H. to Ireland and France.


Our readers have here a view of Melrose Abbey, as restored by Mr Kemp, from authentic data,* We subjoin an account of this interesting place from Mr Chambers' Picture of Scotland.

Upon the southern bank of the Tweed, stand the ruins of the celebrated abbey of Melrose, surrounded by the little village of the same name. The ruins of this ancient monastery, or rather of the church connected with it, (for the domestic buildings are entirely gone,) afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture and Gothic sculpture of which this country can boast. By singular good fortune, Melrose is also one of the most entire, as it is the most beautiful, of all the ecclesiastical ruins scattered throughout this reformed land. To say that it is beautiful, is to say nothing . It is exquisitely—splendidly lovely. It is an object possessed of infinite grace and immeasurable charm; it is fine in its general aspect and in its minutest details; it is a study—a glory. The beauty of Melrose, however, is not a healthful ordinary beauty:

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting' there.

Its is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;

Bat beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb.

lis is not the beauty of summer, but the melancholy grace of autumn; not the beauty of a blooming bride, but that of a pining and death-stricken maiden. It is not that this is a thing of perfect splen

* " In attempting a restored view of Melrose Abbey," says Mr Kemp, "my aim has been to adhere strictly to the original details, as far as I could trace them out Of all the windows seen in the view, the tracery is either entire, or in snch a state of preservation, that a slight acquaintance with Gothic architecture renders it an easy task to make out the original design. A small portion of the parapet above the east window is still complete, and a few of the niches are still enriched with their original statues. The staircase on the north corner of the north transept is much destroyed, but I have 6nished it with a turret resembling the one on the west side of the south transept, w hich is still entire. One side of the centre tower still remains. The ornamented turrets, furnished with crocketted pinnacles, which enrich its parapet, are the only example of the kind I have seen. Two of the turrets still remain on the west corners of the tower, and one of the pinnacles lies in a garden adjoining the abbey. The west tower, slightly seen in the distance, and part of the spire, are the only parts for which I have not sufficient data; but they are compositions from the details of the building which appear most prominent in the new."

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