Sternly he spoke-" "Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown;
But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.
"Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trod,
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down;
But prouder base-born Murray rode

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. 'But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of Despair? “With hackbut bent, my secret stand,

Dark as the purposed deed, I chose;
And mark'd where, mingling in his band,
Troop'd Scottish pikes, and English bows.
'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove,
Proud Murray's plumage floated high;
Scarce could his trampling charger move,
So close the minions crowded nigh.
"From the raised visor's shade, his eye,

Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along;
And his steel truncheon, waved on high,
Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.
But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd
A passing shade of doubt and awe;
Some fiend was whispering in his breast,
Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!'

"The death-shot parts-the charger springs-
Wild rises tumult's startling roar!
And Murray's plumy helmet rings-
Rings on the ground to rise no more.
What joy the raptured youth can feel,
To hear her love the loved one tell;
Or he, who broaches on his steel

66

The wolf, by whom his infant fell: "But dearer to my injured eye,

To see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy, To hear him groan his felou soul.

L

"My Margaret's spectre glided near;
With pride her bleeding victim saw;
And shriek'd, in his death-deafen'd ear,
'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!'
"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!
Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree!
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!
Murray is fallen, and Scotland free!
Vaults every warrior to his steed;

Loud bugs join their wild acclaimMurray is fallen, and Scotland freed!

Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!"—

But see!-the minstrel vision fails

The glimmering spears are seen no more; The shouts of war die on the gales,

Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.

For the loud bugles pealing high,

The blackbird whistles down the vale;

And, sunk in ivied ruins, lie

The banner'd towers of Evandale.

For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,

And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain,
Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.

And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids, who list the minstrel's tale:
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known
On the fair banks of Evandale!

Gilderoy.

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead-note of the drum,
I mark the gallows-tree!

The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame ?

Scott

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear:
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart!

Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;

And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear upon the scaffold-floor,
The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue!
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu!--but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my wo with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thy orphan boy!

Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away!

Campbell.

Ned Bolton.

A JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea;
When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass be!
And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in shame,
If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge thy name!
Up, up, my lads!-his memory!-we'll give it with a cheer,-
Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake privateer!
Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw nor speck;
Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter-deck;
He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian dame,
And Spanish planters cross'd themselves at whisper of his name;
But now, Jamaica girls may weep-rich Dons securely smile-
His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch Indian isle!
'S blood! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mother-wave,—
The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a grave!
With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane,
No need would he have had to cruise in tropic climes again:
But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang on shore,
And Fortune cried, God speed! at last, and welcomed Ned no more.
'Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter brief-
The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef;
Upon a cutting coral-reef-scarce a good league from land-
But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged upon the strand:
His boats were lost before Cape Horn; and, with an old canoe,
Even had he number'd ten for one, what could Ned Bolton do?
Six days and nights, the vessel lay upon the coral-reef

Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought prospect of relief;
For a land-breeze, the wild one prayed, who never prayed before,
And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip, and swore:
The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not venture near,
Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer!

A calm!-a calm!-a hopeless calm!-the red sun, burning high,
Glared blisteringly and wearily, in a transparent sky;
The grog went round the gasping crew, and loudly rose the song,
The only pastime at an hour when rest seem'd far too long.
So boisterously they took their rouse, upon the crowded deck,
They look'd like men who had escaped, not fear'd, a sudden wreck
Up sprung the breeze the seventh day-away! away! to sea
Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters free;
Their battle-flag, these rovers bold then hoisted topmast high,
And to the swarthy foe sim back a fierce-defying cry.ba [rar
"One last broadside!" N Bolton

My Mother.

Ar last, O my Mother! thou sleepest;
At last, thy poor heart is still;
No longer, dear Mother! thou keepest
A watch in a world of ill.

Though I feel of all love forsaken,
When thine is no longer near;
Yet I thank my God, who hath taken
Thee hence, and I shed no tear.

I smile with a sorrowful gladness,
While I think, thou never more
Shalt drink from the black cup of sadness,
Which, through thy whole life, ran o'er.
When a hard lot pressed severest,

Oh little had been my care,

Had I known that thou, best and dearest!
Didst a lighter portion share.

But as there ne'er was another

On earth more gentle and kind,
So none, my own dove-hearted Mother!
Did a heavier burthen find.

Yet it woke no voice of complaining,
Nor changed thy passionless air,
At a time, when to image thy paining,
Was more than I well could bear.

There needed no whisper of duty
To summon me to thy side;
To dwell near thy soul-stilling beauty,
Was a rapture and a pride.

Often now, when his peace is riven
With visions of shame and fear,
The thought that thou'rt happy in heaven,
Doth thy son's dark bosom cheer.

A thousand would call the spot dreary
Where thou takest a long repose;
rude couch is sweet to the weary,
The frame that suffering knows.
ejoiced more sincerely

at thy funeral hour;

1,.that the one I loved dearly,
Deyond affliction's power.

Kennedy.