Her features distorted, her colour the clay, Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.

Ere morn they returned; but how well had they never! They brought with them horror too deep to sustain, Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever, To harrow the bosom and fever the brain. List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;— O! sweet is the path of devotion and duty!— When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death,

And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.

THE BRIDE'S TALE.

I had just laid me down, but no word could I pray!

I had pillowed my head, and drawn up the bed-cover;

I thought of the grave where my loved

father lay,

Till God shall yon gates everlasting My poor brow is open, 'tis burning vit

ing over.

I looked to my husband; but just as he came To enter my couch, it seemed all in a flame, A ghastly refulgence as bright as day-noon, Though shut was the chamber from eye of the moon.

Bestower of being! in pity, O! hide
That sight from the eye of my spirit for

ever;

That page from the volume of memory divide, Or memory and being eternally sever! My father approached; our bed-curtains he drew;

Ah! well the gray locks and pale features I knew:

I saw his fix'd eye-balls indignantly glow; Yet still in that look there were pity and woe.

O! hide thee, my daughter, he eagerly cried ; O haste from the bed of that parricide lover! Embrace not thy husband, unfortunate bride, Thy red cup of misery already runs over. He strangled thy father! thy guilt paved

the way; Thy heart yet is blameless, O fly while you may!

Thy portion of life must calamity leaven; But fly while there's hope of forgiveness from Heaven.

And thou, fell destroyer of virtue and life! O! well mayst thou quake at thy terrible doom;

For body or soul, with barbarity rife,

On earth is no refuge, in heaven no room. Fly whither thou wilt, I will follow thee still, To dens of the forest, or mists of the hill;

Yet many a song of wondrous power,
Well known in cot and green-wood bower,
Wherever swells the shepherd's reed
On Yarrow's banks and braes of Tweed;
Yes, many a song of olden time,
Of rude array, and air sublime,
Though long on time's dark whirlpool tossed,
The song is saved, the bard is lost.

Yet have I weened, when these I sung On Ettrick banks, while mind was young; When on the eve their strains I threw, And youths and maidens round me drew; Or chanted in the lonely glen, Far from the haunts and eyes of men: Yes, I have weened, with fondest sigh, The spirit of the bard was nigh; Swung by the breeze on braken pile, Or hovering o'er me with a smile. Would Fancy still her dreams combine, That spirit, too, might breathe on mine; Well pleased to see her songs the joy Of that poor lonely shepherd-boy.

'Tis said, and I believe the tale, That many rhymes which still prevail, Of genuine ardour, bold and free, Were aye admired, and aye will be, Had never been, or shortly stood, But for that Wake at Holyrood. Certes that many a bard of name, Who there appeared and strove for fame, No record names, nor minstrel's tongue; Not even are known the lays they sung.

The fifth was from a western shore, Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr: Of peasant make, and doubtful mien, Affecting airs of proud disdain;

Wide curled his raven locks and high,
Dark was his visage, dark his eye,
That glanced around on dames and men
Like falcon's on the cliffs of Ken.
Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit
Presumed at much, for all unfit.
No one could read the character,
If knave or genius writ was there;
But all supposed, from mien and frame,
From Erin he an exile came.

With hollow voice, and harp ill strung, Some bungling parody he sung, Well known to maid and matron gray, Through all the glens of Galloway; For often had he conned it there, With simpering and affected air. Listened the Court, with sidelong bend, In wonder how the strain would end: But long ere that it grew so plain, They scarce from hooting could refrain; And each to others 'gan to say, What good can come from Galloway?

Woe for the man so indiscreet! For bard would be a name unmeet

For self-sufficient sordid elf,
Whom none admires but he himself.
Unheard by him the scorner's tongue,
For still he capered and he sung,
With many an awkward gape the while,
And many a dark delighted smile,
Till round the throne the murmurs ran,
Till ladies blushed behind the fan;
And when the rustic ceased to sing,
A hiss of scorn ran round the ring.
Dark grinned the fool around the form,
With blood-shot eye, and face of storm;
Sprung from his seat with awkward leap,
And muttered curses dark and deep.

The sixth, too, from that country he, Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee; Where Summer spreads her purple screen O'er moors where greensward ne'er was seen; Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern, Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn.

Gentle his form, his manners meet, His harp was soft, his voice was sweet; He sung Lochryan's hapless maid, In bloom of youth by love betrayed; Turned from her lover's bower at last, To brave the chilly midnight-blast; And bitterer far, the pangs to prove Of ruined fame, and slighted love; A tender babe, her arms within, Sobbing and shivering at the chin. No lady's cheek in court was dry, So softly poured the melody.

The eighth was from the Leven coast: The rest who sung that night are lost

Mounted the bard of Fife on high, Bushy his beard, and wild his eye: His cheek was furrowed by the gale, And his thin locks were long and pale. Full hardly passed he through the throng, Dragging on crutches, slow along, His feeble and unhealthy frame, And kindness welcomed as he came. His unpresuming aspect mild, Calm and benignant as a child, Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh, That more was there than met the eye. Some wizard of the shore he seemed, Who through the scenes of life had dreamed Of spells that vital life benumb, Of formless spirits wandering dumb, Where aspens in the moon-beam quake, By mouldering pile, or mountain-lake. He deemed that fays and spectres wan Held converse with the thoughts of man; In dreams their future fates foretold, And spread the death-flame on the wold; Or flagged at eve each restless wing, In dells their vesper-hymns to sing.

Such was our bard, such were his lays; And long, by green Benarty's base,

e loud as I heir ye lee!

We gaed to the vault beyound the towir,
Quhare we enterit free as ayr;
And we drank, and we drank of the bishopis
wine

Quhill we culde drynk ne mair.—

Gin that be true, my guid auld wyfe,
Whilk thou hast tauld to me,
Betide my death, betide my life,
I'll beire thee companye.

Neist tyme ye gaung to merry Carlisle To drynk of the blude-reid wyne, Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee, If the deil should fly behynde.—

Ah! little do ye ken, my silly auld man,
The daingeris we maun dree;
Last nychte we drank of the bishopis wyne,
Quhill near near taen war we.

Afore we wan to the Sandy Ford,

The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen
The gor-cockis nichering flew;

Was wavit about with blue,
And, flichtering throu the ayr, we fand
The chill chill mornyng-dew.

Fyfe

cumlye comparit wi' thee.

en the mermaidis sang and the woodlandis rang, e sweitly swellit the quire; every cliff a herpe they hang, On every tree a lyre.

aye they sang, and the woodlandis rang, nd we drank, and we drank se deip; en soft in the armis of the warlock men, ve laid us dune to sleip.—

The sun raise fair and cleir;

There gurly James, and his baronis braw, War out to hunt the deir.

Their bowis they drew, their arrowis flew,
And piercit the ayr with speide,
Quhill purpil fell the mornyng-dew
With witch-blude rank and reide.

Littil do ye ken, my silly auld man,
The daingeris we maun dree;
Ne wonder I am a weary wycht
Quhan I come hame to thee.-