The Last Minstrel.

Scott.

THE way was long the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day -
The harp his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy:
The last-of-all-the-bards was he,
Who sang of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them and at rest.
No more, on-prancing-palfrey borne,
He caroll'd light as lark at morn;
No-longer courted and caress'd,
High-placed in-hall a welcome guest,
He pour'd to lord and lady gay

The unpremeditated lay ;

Old times were changed old manners gone,

A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne :

The bigots of the iron-time

Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd-his-bread from-door-to-door!
And tuned to-please-a-peasant's-ear
The harp a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
The minstrel gazed with wistful eye-
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With-hesitating-step at-last

The embattled portal-arch he pass'd
Whose ponderous gate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd-back the tide of war,
But never closed-the-iron-door
Against the desolate and poor.
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 :
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!

When kindness had his wants supplied
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And, would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man 's strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought e'en 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 reached the room of state
Where she with all her ladies sate,
Perchance he wished 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 agèd 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 recal 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 played 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 lighted-up his faded eye

With all a poet's ecstacy!

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 harp responsive rung,
"T was thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

THE quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain-from-heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:-
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;-
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings:

It is an attribute of God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy season's justice: Think of this,
That in-the-course-of-justice none-of-us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of
mercy.

The Young Loqkin vay.

Scott.

THE young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so gallant in war,
There never was knight like the young

Lochinvar .

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented;-the bridegroom came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Lochinvar.

So, boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?”

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide:
And now I am come with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens-in-Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."