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HE 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 sung 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 caroli'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 wishful eye-
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal-arch he pass'd,


Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rollid 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 :

Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient Lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Moninouth, who was beheaded in 1685.

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 harp responsive rung,
Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

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