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,

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.

*[Mr, afterwards Sir William Arbuthnot, the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, who had the honour to entertain the Grand-Duke, now 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 1817; 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 adding perhaps "a little salt to the bill.”]

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;
She, as the flutterings here ayow,
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.]

POETRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT,

Published in the Border Minstrelsy.

THOMAS THE RHYMER.1

When seven years more were come and gone,

Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon'

His beacon blazing red.
Then all by bonny Coldingknow,

Pitch'd palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a-rowe

Glanced gaily through the broom.
The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,

Resounds the ensenzie ;*
They roused the deer from Caddenhead,

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,

In Learmont's high and ancient hall :
And there were knights of great renown,

And ladies, laced in pall.
Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,

The music nor the tale,
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,

Nor mantling quaighs' of ale.
True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,

When as the feast was done :
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,

The elfin harp he won.)
Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue,

And harpers for envy pale;
And armed lords leand on their swords,

And hearken'd to the tale.
In numbers high, the witching tale

The prophet pour'd along ;
No after bard might e'er avail?

Those numbers to prolong.
Yet fragments of the lofty strain

Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,

A parted wreck appears.
He sung King Arthur's Table Round:

The Warrior of the Lake;
How courteous Gawaine met the wound,

And bled for ladies' sake.
But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,

The notes melodious swell;
Was none excell'd in Arthur's days,

The knight of Lionelle.

1

Quaighs—Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together. ? See introduction to this ballad.

See, in the Fabliaux of Mousieur le Grand, elegantly translated by the ate Gregory Way. Esq., the tale of the Knight and the Sword.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,

A venom'd wound he bore;
When fierce Morholde lie slew in fight,

Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;

No medicine could be found, Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue

She bore the leech's part;
And, while she o'er bis sick-bed hung,

He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!

For, doom'd in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,

His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard,

In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,

In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,

High rear'd its glittering head; And Avalon's enchanted vale

In all its wonders spread.

Brangwain was there, and Segramore,

And fiend-born Merlin's 'gramarye; Of that famed wizard's mighty lore,

O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song

In changeful passion led,
Till bent at length the listening throng

O'er Tristrem's dying bed.