adding the description which Sir Walter Scott has given of it in

his Lay of the Last Minstrel.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are dark in nigh*,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the howlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go-but go alone the while

Then view St David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair.

By a steel-clench'd postern door,
They enter'd now the chancel tall ;
The darken'd roof rose high aloof

On pillars, lofty, light, and small;

The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys or a quatre-feuille ;

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim ;
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,

With base and capital furnish'd around,

Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

The moon on the east oriel shone,

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliaged tracery combined;

Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand

In many a freakish knot had twined ;

Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.

At the time of the Reformation the inmates of this abbey shared in the general reproach of sensuality and irregularity thrown upon the Romish churchmen, as is testified by a ballad then popular, which contained the following verse:

The monks of Melrose made gude kail

On Fridays, when they fasted ;
Nor wanted they gude beef and ale,

As lang as their neighbours' lasted.

Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.

Whatever might be the sensuality of the monks of Melrose, it is certain that some of their power was sometimes matter of real inconvenience to the public. The abbot had such an extensive jurisdiction, and the privileges of girth and sanctuary interfered so much with the execution of justice, that James V. is said to have once acted as baron baillie, in order to punish those malefactors in the character of the abbot's deputy, whom his own sovereign power, and that of the laws were unable to reach otherwise. But, whatever may be thought of this, there can be no doubt that the protection extended to criminals by the religious was a true blessing in the main, at a time when the law could neither inflict punishment, nor protect a criminal from the rash and unmeasured retribution of those whom he had offended.

After the Reformation, a brother of the earl of Morton became commendator of the abbey, and out of the ruins built himself a house, which may still be seen about fifty yards to the north-east of the church. The regality soon after passed into the hands of lord Binning, an eminent lawyer, ancestor to the earl of Haddington: and about a century ago, the whole became the property of the Buccleuch family.

• Various versions have been given of this striking piece, in different languages. The original is probably French. The present English version is the best which we have seen, and first appeared in the Foreign Quarterly Review.

OSWALD THE BLIGHTED.

A TALE OF AYRSHIRE.*

In my early manhood I am led to note the most remarkable passages of my life. My age little exceeds twenty-three years, yet already have I a strong sense of the flight and the ravages of dark-handed time. The revolutions wrought in my own estate and condition, even within the lapse of these few late years, are marvellous to myself. I am not what I was. Not less altered is the current of my every-day conduct and manners from that of my early youth, than are the lineaments of my countenance, or the contour of my frame.—But to my story:

My father died when I was five years old; and therefore of him I can have little to tell from my own recollections. One particular transaction descriptive of his behaviour to me, that greatly endears his memory in my heart, is, however, freshly and minutely remembered; nor shall it ever depart but with my reason or my life. A few days before his last illness, which was short, he took me into the garden after a heavy shower of snow, and there, in the strength of his love, playfully tempted me to a mimic fight with snow-balls. Oh! soft were those he threw; most careful and gentle the blows. Then the loud laugh he set up, to see me waxing hot in the encounter, was a hearty delightful utterance of over-flowing joy. At length he allowed me to become victor; but as I closed upon him, still in battle, he took me up into his arms, and almost smothered me with caresses, his eyes filling with parental tears, which in his exultation he could not stem.

On my father's death, Learigg, one of the richest farms in my naive parish, descended to me. But my mother, who long survived him, was a far more valuable residue and inheritance. It would be tiresome to a stranger, were I to tell all that I feel is due to her excellencies. Suffice it to say, that to a judgment originally firm, and affections intensely tender, she possessed the best habits assiduously studied and cherished. The character of her mind was forcibly indicated by the style of her sway over her dependants, which was gained entirely by the dignity of kindliness. I often observed that it was by striving to deserve her approbation that they earned their own. But it was towards me, her fatherless boy, that the power of her nature and character had full display. Who could compute the amount of her parental love—that inextinguishable triumphant love? It was deep and pure and sacred as that of a seraph. Endless were the expedients, infinite the modes, by which it wrought. She cares * Abridged from "The Metropolitan."

sed, it seemed to me, as none ever could do. She was my first and best, and most enduring friend. There was no falsehood, no treachery, in her love. And was she not my earliest instructor?—I cannot tell when or how—yet surely none but she taught me the amazing truth, "There is a God!"

How oft by the ingle, at the woodbined window, or on the green footpath by a pretty flower-bed, when, with my hands upon her lap, I knelt beside her, has she declared the things of highest moment to man! She would tell, in mellow accents not unmingled with sighs, —(for a subdued melancholy, ever after my father's death, dwelt with her, that sent home to my heart the inculcated truths with double emphasis,)—that all must die, and live again;—that at the last day, my father, and she herself, and I, in spite of my fancies about hiding me at that dread period, should have to come forth from our graves at the summons of the trump-that those who did evil, and died impenitent, should be wicked and miserable for ever and ever; but that those that were good and pious should, to all eternity, be growing greater, happier, and more glorious.

Thrice blessed may she be !—Immortal happiness to my mother! who told me of the angels, whose youth fadeth not; who are the heralds of God; with whom the good are for ever to dwell and to be likened. More illustrious glory and joy be to her, who first told me of him who died that sinners might live! What themes are these! -Does their mighty and melting power not come best from a mother's lips?—Yes; and if ever a parent hung over a child with looks of yearning love, it was mine, at these seasons; and if ever a child watched and greedily treasured a parent's every expression, with eyes fixed and full of glistening earnestness, it was the writer of these lines, when in the hallowed presence of his mother's priesthood. It seemed that at those times I mysteriously gained a closer union with the fountain of my blood; I followed all her gestures with a corresponding exactness; all her emphases with an echoing precision. Oh! how she would exclaim, "My child! my child!—of such is the kingdom of heaven; and holy mothers shall join them there, never to be separated."

At no time was I a very intractable child; nor particularly refrac. tory: yet a heavy load of painful remembrances presses me, of offences committed directly against my mother, from my earliest years down. wards. Alas! how many have slipped from that record! At present, however, I shall not waste words by attempting any general description of my natural character, of my innate and original predomi nating propensities; but at once proceed to give facts, and describe events which will more clearly exhibit the truth, than any laboured description. Nor need I descend to any late period of my history, when searching for an index with which to decipher me.