As the old man toiled along by "Newark's ftately towers,"

The Duchess mark'd his weary pace,

His timid mien and reverend face,

And bade her page the menials tell,

That they should tend the old man well.

The wants of the minstrel were readily fupplied, and the kind attention which he received having pleafed and gratified the poor old man, he would repay the favours which he had received by once more wakening the mufic of his harp; for

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 obtain'd,
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd;
But, when he reach'd the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wish'd 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 play'd it to King Charles the good,

When he kept court in Holyrood;

And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,

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 lighten'd up his faded eye,

With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:

The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his heart responsive rung,
'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

What was the burden of that "Lay of the Laft Minstrel" we need not tell; for who has not lingered over "that bright confummate flower, in which all the deareft of Scott's youthful fancies found expansion for their strength, tenderness, and beauty.”

CHRISTMAS-TIDE.

HEERFULNESS was the characteristic of our fathers, not lefs in the genial spring, the glowing summer, and the grateful autumn, than in the bleak feason, when the smiling plains and valleys

Put on their snowy robe of purest white.

When winter spread its latest gloom, and " reigned

tremendous o'er the conquered year," its rigours were softened by the kindly feeling and generous hospitality which prevailed in the castles, the abbeys, and the mansions of old England. The hoar defpot was defpoiled of half his terrors, though he came in form more grim and terrible than even Chatterton has painted him,

Pale, rugged Winter, bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropped with icy dew;
His eyes a dusky light, congealed and dead,
His robe a tinge of light ethereal hue.