When Monsieur Alexandre, the celebrated ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he entertained his distinguished host and the other visitors with his unrivalled imitations. Next morning, when he was about to depart, Sir Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the sort of acknowledgment he should offer; but at length, resolving that it would probably be most agreeable to the young foreigner to be paid in professional coin, if in any, he stepped aside for a few minutes, and, on returning, presented him with this epigram." The lines were published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1824.

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day;
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steed,
A peerless Archer, Percy Rede:

And right dear friends were they. The chase engrossed their joys and woes, Together at the dawn they rose, Together shared the noon's repose,;

By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
When each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near,
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,

The signs the hunters know;
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears,
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears;
The restless palfrey paws and rears;
The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot !-Halloo! Halloo! Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue :— But woe the shaft that erring flew

That e'er it left the string! And ill betide the faithless yew! The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound-he dies, he dies,
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes,
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver.
Now day may break and bugle sound,
And whoop and halloo ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps for ever.
Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise,
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death-but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mixed with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite, bending low,

In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay
In unreproachful accents say,
"The hand that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine?

"And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, Which sure some erring aim address'd, Since in your service, prized, caress'd,

I in your service die;
And you may have a fleeter hound,
To match the dun-deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found

So true a guard as I."

And to his last stout Percy rued,
The fatal chance; for when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,
And fell amid the fray,

E'en with his dying voice he cried,
"Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been
I had not died to-day!"

The rain is descending, the wind rises loud; [with a cloud; And the moon her red beacon has veil'd 'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye [are nigh.

Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Grey ! [his neigh); There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane [darkness and rain. Shall marshal your march through the

has blown;

Down dark oblivion's river;

But Art can Time's stern doom arrest, And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, And, in her Cooper's colours drest,

The scene shall live for ever.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. GEORGE SCOTT.

[1830.]

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale.
Art thou a parent?-Reverence this bier-
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here.
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start,
With opening talents and a generous heart,
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all
thine own?—

Lo! here their end-a monumental stone!
But let submission tame each sorrowing
thought,
[was fought.
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight

THE FORAY.

[1830.]

THE last of our steers on our board has been spread, [red; And the last flask of wine in our goblet is Up! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords,

and begone!— [spoil to be won. There are dangers to dare, and there's

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours, [from the towers, For a space must be dim, as they gaze And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom, [the plume. prance of the steed, and the toss of

The

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

[1822.]

ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, [woodlands to roam, At the close of the evening through Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me [for home. Explore the wild scenes he was quitting Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking [woe: The language alternate of rapture and Oh! none but some lover, whose heartstrings are breaking, [know.

The pang that I feel at our parting can Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, [way,

Or pale disappointment, to darken my What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow, [to-day!

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, [canst not assuage; The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, [of age,

The languor of pain, and the chillness 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, [the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unTo sing how a warrior lay stretched on availing, [vain:

And held to his lips the cold goblet in As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers, [is o'er,

To a bard when the reign of his fancy And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers[thee no more! Farewell, then, Enchantress! I meet

PRI. Alas! there have been changes since that time! [glas, Grahame, The Royal Bruce, with Randolph, DouThen shook in field the banners which now moulder

Over their graves i' the chancel.

VIP. And thence comes it,

That while I look'd on many a well-known

crest

[came, And blazon'd shield, as hitherward we The faces of the Barons who display'd

[they seem'd; Brave youths

them Were all unknown to me. Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-yard, Than to be leaders of a war. Their followers, [selves unpractisedYoung like themselves, seem like themLook at their battle-rank. PRI. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled eye, [and helmet, So thick the rays dart back from shield And sword and battle-axe, and spear and pennon. [self Sure 'tis a gallant show! The Bruce himHath often conquer'd at the head of fewer And worse appointed followers.

VIP. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led them. Reverend Father, [combat; 'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a It is the strong and skilful hand that wields it. [King, Ill fate, that we should lack the noble And all his champions now! Time call'd them not,

For when I parted hence for Palestine, The brows of most were free from grizzled hair. [know, in Scotland PRI. Too true, alas! But well you Few hairs are silver'd underneath the helmet ; ['Mongst the laity, 'Tis cowls like mine which hide them. War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his sickle [years Before the grain is white. In threescore And ten, which I have seen, I have outlived

Well-nigh two generations of our nobles. The race which holds yon summit is the third.

VIP. Thou mayst outlive them also. PRI. Heaven forfend! My prayer shall be, that Heaven will

close my eyes,

Before they look upon the wrath to come. VIP. Retire, retire, good Father! Pray for Scotland

Think not on me. Here comes an ancient friend,

Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are no deer;

And England's Edward is no stag at bay. VIP. (advancing). There needed not, to blazon forth the Swinton,

| His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak,-nor his proud step,

Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous mace, Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can wield:

His discipline and wisdom mark the leader, As doth his frame the champion. Hail, brave Swinton !

Swi. Brave Templar, thanks! Such your cross'd shoulder speaks you; But the closed visor which conceals your features [perhapsForbids more knowledge. Umfraville, VIP. (unclosing his helmet). No; one less worthy of our sacred Order. Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd my features

Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton
Will welcome Symon Vipont.

join me,

highl

Thou'lt follow yon old pennon, wilt thou not?

'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the Boar-heads

[board, Look as if brought from off some Christmas Where knives had notch'd them deeply. VIP. Have with them, ne'ertheless. The Stuart's Chequer, [Lymphads, The Bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal Lion, [them. Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see round them [known to me. A chosen band of lances-some well Where's the main body of thy followers? Swi. Symon de Vipont, thou dost see them all [battle, That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to However loud it rings. There's not a boy Left in my halls, whose arm has strength enough [hind, To bear a sword-there's not a man beHowever old, who moves without a staff. Striplings and greybeards, every one is here, [them all; And here all should be-Scotland needs And more and better men, were each a Hercules,

The sepulchre of Christ from the rude Fall in unholy warfare! [heathen,

Swi. Unholy warfare? ay, well hast thou named it;

[yard shafts But not with England-would her clothHad bored their cuirasses! Their lives had been [defence Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold Of their dear country--but in private feud With the proud Gordon fell my Longspear'd John, [Ready, He with the Axe, and he men call'd the Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will-the Gordon's Devour'd my gallant issue. [wrath VIP. Since thou dost weep, their death is unavenged? [See yonder rock, Swi. Templar, what think'st thou me? From which the fountain gushes-is it less Compact of adamant, though waters flow from it? [avenged;

Firm hearts have moister eyes.-They are I wept not till they were-till the proud Gordon [sword, Had with his life-blood dyed my father's In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's lineage, [Gordon And then I wept my sons; and, as the Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him, Which mingled with the rest. We had been friends, [gether,

[one!

Allies and vassals, thouwert wont to leadA thousand followers shrunk to sixty lances [sons, Sir Alan? In twelve years' space?-And thy brave Alas! I fear to ask. [home Swi. All slain, De Vipont. In my empty A puny babe lisps to a widow'd mother, Where is my grandsire! wherefore do you weep?" [heirless. But for that prattler, Lyulph's house is I'm an old oak, from which the foresters Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and left beside me

44

As due a part of his inheritance, As the strong castle and the ancient blazon, Where private Vengeance holds the scales of justice, [lously

Weighing each drop of blood as scrupuAs Jews or Lombards balance silver pence, Not in this land, 'twixt Solway and Saint Abb's,

Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs, The Swinton and the Gordon.

VIP. You, with some threescore lances -and the Gordon

Leading a thousand followers.

Swi. You rate him far too low. Since you sought Palestine, [ships He hath had grants of baronies and lordIn the far-distant North. A thousand horse [number'd.

His southern friends and vassals always Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from Dey and Spey