Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfum'd breath;
Let them be placed about my bier,

And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know;
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below:
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,—
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.

That is the grave to Lucy shown,—
The soil a pure and silver sand,
The green cold moss above it grown,
Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand :
In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,

There let my maiden form be laid.
Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd,

Nor for new guest that bed be made.

There will the lark,-the lamb, in sport,
In air,-on earth,-securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent,—but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground,
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey;

I will not have the bell proclaim

When those sad marriage rites begin,—

And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.

Say not, it is beneath my care;

I cannot these cold truths allow :These thoughts may not afflict me there,

Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,
That man a maiden's grave may trace;
But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place.

O! take me from a world I hate,-
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,-
For only generous souls design'd,

And not a man to meet us there.

WOMAN.

PLACE the white man on Afric's coast,
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
Who of their scorn to Europe boast,

And paint their very demons white
There, while the sterner sex disdains

To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains,

And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow,

From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope re-flow,

That languish'd in the fainting heart.

"What though so pale his haggard face, So sunk and sad his looks,"—she cries; And far unlike our nobler race,

With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
Yet misery marks him of our kind,—
We see him lost, alone, afraid!
And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.

"Perhaps in some far distant shore,

There are who in these forms delight ; Whose milky features please them more

Of such may be his weeping wife,
Such children for their sire may call :
And if we spare his ebbing life,

Our kindness may preserve them all."

Thus her compassion woman shows,
Beneath the line her acts are these;
Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows
Can her warm flow of pity freeze ;—
"From some sad land the stranger comes,

Where joys like ours are never found;
Let's soothe him in our happy homes,
Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.

'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,
To see the famish'd stranger fed ;
To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.
The powers above our Lapland bless
With good no other people know;
T' enlarge the joys that we possess,
By feeling those that we bestow!"

Thus in extremes of cold and heat,
Where wandering man may trace his kind;
Wherever grief and want retreat,

In woman they compassion find:
She makes the female breast her seat,
And dictates mercy to the mind.

Man may the sterner virtues know,-
Determined justice, truth severe ;
But female hearts with pity glow,
And woman holds affliction dear:
For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,
And suffering vice compels her tear,
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,

And bid life's fairer views appear.

To woman's gentle kind we owe

What comforts and delights us here;

They its gay hopes on youth bestow,

And care they soothe and age they cheer.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of sixteen, he was afflicted with ill health; and, either from the weakness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occasioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed among the hills and dales of the borders-" famous in war and verse"-" where," we quote from Allan Cunningham," almost every stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, or single combat; and every stream, although its waters be so inconsiderable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, became an advocate at the Scottish bar: but after a few years' attendance at the Courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself to literature. He had, however, reached his 25th year, before he manifested any desire, or rather intention, to contend for fame in a path so intricate; and as he himself states, his first attempt ended in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802," the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" obtained a more fortunate destiny; and about three years afterwards, the publication of "the Lay of the Last Minstrel," completely established the fame of the writer. From the appearance of this Poem, the life of the Poet, until towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. Marmion issued from the press in 1808; the Lady of the Lake, in 1810; Don Roderick, in 1811; Rokeby, in 1813; the Lord of the Isles, in 1814; the Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless, appeared anonymously,-the former, in 1813; and the latter, in 1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers became bankrupts; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,-not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary responsibilities to a ruinous extent. He encountered adversity with manly fortitude; asked and obtained from his creditors no other boon than time; and in about four years had actually paid off nearly £70,000. of the debt. The price of almost superhuman labour was, however, to be exacted. In 1831, he was attacked with gradual paralysis: in the autumn of that year he was prevailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the south of Europe;-the experiment was unsuccessful in restoring him to health: he returned to Abbotsford, and died there on the 21st of September, 1832. His loss was mourned not only by his own country, but in every portion of the civilized globe; for his fame had spread throughout all parts of it: and there is scarcely a language into which his works have not been translated. The kindness of his heart, the benevolence of his disposition, the thorough GOODNESS of his nature, were appreciated by all who had the privilege of his acquaintance; but his genius is the vast and valuable property of mankind.

In person he was tall, and had the appearance of a powerful and robust man. His countenance has been rendered familiar by artists in abundance; the justest notion of it is conveyed by the bust of Chantrey. Its expression was peculiarly benevolent; his forehead was broad, and remarkably high.

We have left ourselves but little space to comment upon the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; his fame as a Poet was eclipsed by his reputation as a Novelist; and the appearance of a star of greater magnitude drew from him, by degrees, the popularity he had so long engrossed. Yet we venture to hazard an opinion, that if it be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his prose; and that Waverley and Ivanhoe will perish before Marmion and the Lady of the Lake. We can find no rare and valuable quality in the former that we may not find in the latter. A deeply interesting and exciting story, glorious and true pictures of scenery, fine and accurate portraits of character, clear and impressive accounts of ancient customs, details of battles-satisfying to the fancy, yet capable of enduring the sternest test of truth-are to be found in the one class as well as in the other. In addition, we have the most graceful and harmonious verse; and the style is undoubtedly such, as equally to delight those who possess,

SCOTT.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

ENCHANTRESS, farewell! who so oft has decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe;

Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way,

What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day!