Freemen's force, or false beguiling,
Shall that union ne'er divide,
Hand in hand while peace is smiling,
And in battle side by side.'

LINES,2

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.

When the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.
As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.

1 [Mr, afterwards Sir William Arbuthnot, the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, who had the honour to entertain the Grand-Duke, new Emperor of Russia, was a personal friend of Sir Walter Scott's; and these Verses, with their heading, are now given from the newspapers of 1816.]

* [These lines were first printed in "The Forget-Me-Not, for 1834" They were written for recitation by the distinguished actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1917; but reached her too late for her purpose. In a letter which enclosed them, the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of the day on which they were sent that he thought the idea better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope of their accing perhaps little salt to the b

No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day-
All these endured no favour claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too, who ply the Thespian art, Oft feel such bodings of the heart, And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, Dare hardly hope your favour gain'd. She, who from sister climes has sought The ancient land where Wallace fought;Land long renown'd for arms and arts, And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts;-1 She, as the flutterings here avow,

Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;

Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task

To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

'["O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms."

Lines Written for Mr. J. Kemble.]