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Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will ;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a vipėr to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with smiles
A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming;
A lip of lies--a face formed to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood.
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greeness of the scorpion's scale-
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face)
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged

There is no trait which might not be enlarged:- . · Yet true to “Nature's journeymen,” who made.

This monster when their mistress left off trade,-. :
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought .
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thon inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims—and despair!
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers-
And festering in the infamy of years.

· ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER'OF

THE HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH,
AT A GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH..

Walter Scott.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,

Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame; . ; And each forester blithe from his mountain descending,

Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

CHORUS

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettricke eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall’d the pride of the Border,

The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUCH.

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has born her,

No mail-glove has grasped her, no spearmen surround But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,

A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

We forget each contention of civil dissention,

And hail, like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and CAR, And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle,

As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather,

And life itself is but a game at foot-ball.

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure

To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,

To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward,

From the hall of the Peer to the herd's ingle-nook; And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUOCLEUCH and his standard,

For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke!

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettricke eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand like our fathers before

DOINA DE CLYDE.

L. T. Berguer.

DEAR to my soul are the hills of the Highlands,

There, the Clan-Alpine lived outlawed and lone: Dear to my soul the Hebridean islands,

Bruce at thy bridals, there, Editha, shone. Yet, not so much for yon chief of the mountain,

Pathless Benledi, I joy in thy pride : Dearer to me are thy rude rock and fountain,

Since they are sacred to Doina DE CLYDE.

Oft, in the trance of my fancy I've wandered

O'er the high summits of bald Benvenue; Oft, on the banks of Loch-Katrine I've pondered,

Dreaming the barge of its Lady to view. Haunts of romantic and wild meditation,

Mightier charms to your scenes are allied ; Now, that your objects, in sweet combination,

Back to my fancy bring DOINA DE CLYDE.

Victress at Bannock, but vanquished at Flodden,

Caledon triumphed alternate in war; "Till, with her tartans blood drenched at Culloden,

Down from her orbit she dropped, like a star. Ruined and lost, from the conquering foemen . Far fled the Stuart, her glory and pride: Say,—did he 'scape from the Cumberland yeomen?

Yes! in the halls of my DOINA DE CLYDE.

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