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him to health: he returned to Abbotsfora, anu lieu lucic on mu au wa 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,

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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 !

But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,

The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, · To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain ; And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain : As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers,

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers,

Farewell then, enchantress! I meet thee no more!


WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear :
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“ Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain grey ;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming :
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green ;

Now we come to chaunt our lay,--
“ Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size :
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ;

You shall see him brought to bay,-

Louder, louder chaunt the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay;
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

LOCHINVAR. O, YOUNG Lochinvar has come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented—the gallant came lateFor a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby-hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) “ O come ye in peace here, or come ve in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" “ I long woo'd your daughter,-my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up ; He quaff”d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : “ Now tread we a measure !” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,-
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, “ "Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !”.
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“ She is won! we are gone, over bush, loch, and scaur ;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ʼmong Græmes of the Netherby clan,-
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?


O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,-
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo.

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum ;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with dav.

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