THE moon rides high in the clear blue sky, And the lake lies calm and bright; But on that bright lake, where no rude waves break,

A deed must be done to-night.

Ha! do you mark yon lonely bark
That leaves the darken'd shore ?
It spreads no sail to catch the gale,
But I see the glancing oar.

No sailor he for the boisterous sea

Who rows that shallop small;

Yet with him are none, as he hastens on,
Whilst the moonbeams round him fall.

In that soft light, his plumes so white
Wave gaily o'er his brow;

But the fairest far is that lovely star Who shines by her father's side; The heavens have smil'd on Lord Ro nald's child,

And to-night she is Lindsay's bride. And where art thou, Lord Lindsay, now? Must the bridal wait for thee? The feast is set, and the guests are met, But the bridegroom, where is he? And why does Randolph, stern and proud, Stalk through the hall alone? Why looks he on the festive crowd

Till mirth and smiles have flown?

Long, long he strove to gain the love
Of Ronald's beauteous child;

Hangs by his side below.

And now no more he plies his oar,
Though far from land is he,

And the lake beneath lies still as death,
And the stars are twinkling silently.
He looks around, but not a sound

Falls on his anxious ear; Yet on his brow you may mark, e'en now, A transient shade of fear.

That shade has gone he has stoop'd him down,

That warrior high and proudHe has stoop'd him down, and his arms are thrown

Around a lady's shroud;

And a lady fair is lying there

All deadly cold and pale,

And her golden hair, in ringlets rare,
Moves in the silent gale;

And a wound is seen, where the sword has been,

In her fair but blood-stain'd breast; The wild-bird's song, her bowers among, No more will break her rest.

Hark! 'twas a plunge in these waters bright

That lady is seen no more→→→ Shuddering starts the youthful Knight, And returns to the distant shore.

But there is one who has stood alone,
Unseen on the winding shore;

He has mark'd the deed, and with care and speed

Has sought Lord Ronald's door.

In Lord Ronald's to-night the lamps blaze bright,

And guests are in the hall;

And tale and song the mirth prolong,
And splendour gleams o'er all.

The maid on Lindsay smil'd.

What then has brought, unwish'd, unsought,

Lord Randolph here to-night? Comes he to see the bridal glee,

Or comes he to prove his right?

He has stopp'd by the side of the blushing bride,

And he gazes upon her cheek; He has stopp'd by the side of the blush ing bride,

Yet he deigns not a word to speak. But, hark! a sound is echoed round,

And gladness beams on all, For a youthful Knight, like a burst of light, Enters the glittering hall.

Within, without, a deafening shout

Proclaims Lord Lindsay's name; Well lov'd is he by the brave and free,

And well known on the field of fame. In that fair light, his plumes so white Wave gaily o'er his brow;

And the sabre bright of a warrior Knight, Hangs by his side below.

On his Ellen's face he has fix'd his gaze, And he smiles on his lovely bride; But, ha! why now, with that gloomy brow,

Is Randolph so near her side?

He has seiz'd her hand, and they silent stand,

Before the altar stone;

But, ha! why now, with that stern dark brow,

Presses Lord Randolph on?

He tears her away from Lindsay's side,
And steps himself between ;
Flash his eyes with an angry pride,
And stern is his haughty mien.

"Lord Ronald! shame on thy hoary head,
And shame on thy father's land,
If, when your only child you wed,
A murderer gain her hand!"

There was silence deep, like the silence of sleep,

Through all that lofty hall, There was silence deep as in dungeon-keep, Or beneath the shroud and pall.

An instant more, and like torrent's roar, A sound through the silence broke'Twas stern and loud, 'twas fierce and proud,

"Twas Lindsay's voice that spoke. "Oh few there be who thus, like thee,

Have Lindsay's wrath defied ; And even thou, proud Thane, might'st know,

That when they did, they died!
"Oh few there be who thus, like thee,
Have Lindsay's fame decried;
Thou craven-lord, by this good sword,
I tell thee thou hast lied!"

He said, and both their weapons seize,

And fling their sheaths away— But, ha! what dark red spots are these That dim that sabre's ray?

Lord Lindsay's cheek, though he did not speak,

From fiery-red grew pale; There was fear in his look, and his young limbs shook,

And his weapon powerless fell. Gleam'd Randolph's eyes, in glad surprise,

When he gaz'd on the bloody steel; "Oh! the murderer's hand, and the murderer's brand,

The saints themselves reveal! ""Twas a puny bark, and the night was dark,

And the world was fast asleep; And there was not a sound heard all around,

And the lake was black and deep: "But there was one who stood alone, Unseen on the winding shore,

He mark'd thy deed, and with care and speed

He sought Lord Ronald's door.

At length a voice of stifled woe

From his inmost heart was sent→→→ "Nay, grieve not so, my sweet bride, know,

Thy Lindsay still is innocent."

His young bride's eye gave quick reply;
She smil'd through many a tear;
"Lindsay!" she said, " my grief has fled,
And hush'd is every fear:

"Whether soon or late, we shall meet our fate,

To Heaven's will resign'd; And, Lindsay, thou full well may'st know Our fates are intertwin'd."

PART II.

LONG months roll'd on, the Spring was gone,

And Summer's radiance past; And Autumn's bowers, and Autumn's flowers,

Had wither'd in the blast;

And the wild winds blow, as the drifting

snow

Comes down on hill and glen; Birds sing not now, on the high green bough,

For Winter frowns again.

The morn has broke, Dunedin's smoke
Floats through the cold blue sky,
Like purple shroud, or golden cloud,
A splendid canopy;

And far below, a princely show,
Dunedin's turrets gleam;
And the morning light is dancing bright
On Forth's majestic stream.

And the morning gale has fill'd the sail
Of many an anxious bark
That had hasten'd on, before the sun,

When the waves around were dark. And many a Knight, in his armour dight, Is bounding o'er the tide,

And thousands more, by the winding shore,

In haste on their chargers ride.

Sounding afar, has the trump of war

Been o'er the nation sent?

Or go they to hold, these warriors bold, Some princely tournament ?

own

Thy guilt, thou warrior proud;

In whose fair side that sword didst you

hide?

Whom wrapp'd you in yonder shroud?" Lord Lindsay stood in anxious mood, But dared not try to speak,

In anxious mood, while the mantling blood Again regain'd his check.

steed

Is heard as he passes by;

But no smile, I ween, on their lip is seen, No gay glance in their eye.

Full well may you know that they speed

not now

The might of their swords to prove, Nor yet to ride in the lists so wide, For the sake of their ladies' love.

But in silence and woe those warriors go,
To gaze on a sight of fear;
And many an eye, that has long been dry,
Will shed the unbidden tear.

He who so oft, in the midst of the fight,
Had flash'd like a beam on their eyes;
The brave and the free, by their King's
decree,

To-day as a murderer dies.

And they go to gaze on his youthful face, E'er the axe on his neck shall gleam; And they go to gaze on the manly grace

That must pass away as a dream.

Hear you the tread, like the tramp of the dead,

As yon mournful crowd draws near? Every tongue is dumb, but the muffl'd drum

Strikes on the startled ear.

They dare not speak, but they gaze on his cheek,

And his clear and sparkling eye; And they mark him mount, with unchanging front,

That platform black and high.

He mounts not alone, for beside him is one Of a fairer and gentler form;

Ah! she once was his bride, and she clings to his side

Like a lily that bends in the storm.

A stranger stood among the crowd,
And care was on his brow;
He stood array'd in a peasant's plaid,
But a fair sword gleam'd below.

"I pray you, Sir Knight, by your sword so bright,"

Said the dark and the lonely man ; (And a deep blush broke, as he faintless spoke,

O'er his cheek that was erst so wan;) "I pray you, Sir Knight, by your sword so bright,

And by yonder sunny sky;

So tell me the cause why the King and the laws

Have condemn'd that youth to die?" The Knight look'd down, with a haughty frown,

On the stranger's care-worn frame; "Thou peasant slave! are the deeds of the brave

So little known to fame?

"On Lindsay's face you have fix'd your

gaze,

While tears start to your eyes; The brave and the free, by his King's de

crec,

To-day as a murderer dies.

"Aye, slave! look now on that noble brow,

For you never may look again; That youthful Knight, in the clear moon. light,

Slew Ellen of Deloraine.

"The maid had come from her native home,

Her home was far away; But Lindsay's smile, and Lindsay's guile, Had taught her feet to stray.

"And she thought to wed, that simple maid,

The Knight she lov'd so well; But on Lindsay smil'd Lord Ronald's child, The bright-eyed Isobel.

"The lake was deep, and the world asleep,

When they met on the silent shore; 'Twas a fatal night, his dagger was bright, And Ellen was seen no more!

"And there are those, who were Lindsay's foes,

Who speak of sound heard by none; Of the stifl'd breath, and the struggle of death,

And the shriek and the dying groan.

"But thy cheek is pale in the morning gale,

And phrenzy is in thine eye; And thy troubled breast, with grief op. prest,

Heaves many a lengthen'd sigh.”

"Sir Knight, pass on, thy task is done, But mark yon scaffold well;

For the Lord may save the free and the brave,

For love, and life, and Isobel."

The young Knight rais'd his head and gaz'd

Upon the scene of woe;
The axe gleams high, but the startled eye
Dares not behold the blow.

"Farewell, farewell, dear Isobel,
Forget not Lindsay's love;
Oh, weep not so, for well you know
There is a scene above!"

He quits the maid-his neck is laid
Beneath the fatal steel;
And who can tell, though hid so well,

What pangs his heart may feel?

The axe gleams high, a steady eye

Prepares the mortal blow; "He shall not die-'twas I! 'twas I!" A stranger scream'd below.

And as he spoke, the fatal stroke
Suspended hung in air;

He reach'd the place, disclos'd his face,
It was the young St. Clair.

"Away! away! what-would you slay
The noblest flow'r of Tweed?
'Twas I, 'twas I, by yon bright sky,
'Twas I who did the deed!

"I lur'd sweet Ellen from her home-
Her home beyond the sea;
She left her father's princely dome,
Fond maid! for love and me.

"But love grows old, and love grows cold,
And bright eyes please no more;
I hoped to wed a nobler maid,

And Ellen's reign was o'er.

"Yet she would speak, with mantling cheek, Of all the vows I made;

And with a pride she would not hide,

My perjur'd heart upbraid.

"I saw her bleed-oh! that the deed Were blotted from my brain!

'Twas a calm clear night, when my sabre bright

Slew Ellen of Deloraine.

My strength was gone, I threw me down By her fair and lifeless form;

I lay on the rack,and the heav'ns were black, And I heard the howling storm. "Yet the moon shone bright, with her silver light,

And the sky above was blue;

I heard a sound, I look'd around,

And Lindsay's voice I knew.

"Oh! lost St. Clair!' I heard him cry, Thy life is in its prime,

Thou wilt not, must not, darest not die-Go, and repent thy crime.'

"I spake not a word, but he took my sword

And gave his own to me;

I mounted his steed, and, with woe and speed,

I fled alone and silently.

"I have wander'd far, but my heart's deep scar

Was ne'er by wand'ring heal'd; My wretched life with pain was rife,

And I wish'd not my crime conceal'd. "I have come to die 'neath my country's sky,

My bitter woes to end,

I have come to save the faithful and brave

My best, my only friend."

Oh! then broke out a deafening shout,
That o'er Dunedin rung;

And mountains round gave back the sound

Prolong'd by Echo's tongue.

And twenty thousand lips proclaim'd
Lord Lindsay's honour'd name;
And twenty thousand lips, proclaim'd
Lord Lindsay's well-won fame!

And I was not betray'd;

He gaz'd upon the dreadful scene, But she was cold and dead.

Upon his own lov'd Isobel,

Oh! volumes spoke in that short look,
And in her Lindsay's arms she fell.
H. G. B.

A HASTY glance at the Exhibition of this year enables us only to express our disappointment at the very limited range of talent which it displays. In every thing save landscape, it is more than indifferent ; even in portrait there is nothing of uncommon excellence; in the higher walk of history, nothing either good, bad, or indifferent; and in the school of familiar and vulgar life, only a very few which deserve notice. Wilkie sends two specimens, both good, particularly Duncan Gray, No. 15.; but neither calculated in any way to increase his reputation. The scene from the Gentle Shepherd is sweetly painted; but why copy poor Bauldy's countenance from the Jew clarionetplayer in the Enraged Musician? A more Hebrew visage never graced a

synagogue. There are several clever pieces, in rather a lower style, by Geikie, painted with great force, but rather hard in outline and colouring. The Cobler's Stall (No. 22.) seems to us the best specimen of his manner. We observe, also, a multitude of scenes of the same cast, by an artist of the name of Pairman, in which we are quite at a loss to say whether the conception or execution is worst. A great deal, we think, might be said on both sides.

In portrait, the Exhibition cannot, of course, be said to be entirely deficient, while the names of John and George Watson are to be found in the Catalogue. We have seen the former, however, to more advantage; and in this Exhibition his most ambitious performances are by no means

the most successful. His large portrait of the Earl of Hopetoun is by no means a pleasing picture-vague and undecided in its appearance, and singularly inferior to his usual efforts. The small portrait, Francis Grant, Esq. of Kilgraston, in his dress as Ensign to the Knight Mareschal, is every way superior. The portrait of Lord Cringletie, by George Watson, is admirable-one of the finest like nesses we ever saw; and his large painting of Sir Evan Macgregor Murray is excellent, both in drawing and colouring.

It

The real strength of the Exhibition, however, consists in landscape, and in this department it maintains its character. Mr H. W. Williams has fifteen paintings, the Rev. J. Thomson seven, William Simpson six, Andrew Wilson eight; and almost every one of these admirable in its way. Nothing can be more solemnly magnificent than Mr Thomson's two Views of Fast Castle, particularly No. 20.; or more beautiful than his painting of Innerwick Castle (No. 110.): it has all the repose and depth of Gaspar Poussin. His view from the grounds of Hillside, (No. 47.) which is in the same style, we do not like so much; the effect is rather muddy. Prestonpans is also an admirable painting; and the others, though less interesting, are still in the first style of the art. would be difficult to select, from Mr Williams' Grecian Views, any one entitled to a preference over the others. In mere beauty of execution, perhaps the rich sunset view of Athens, with the long embowering shadows of the foreground, and the picturesque figures that diversify it, is the finest ; but there is something to us inexpressibly striking in the desolation of the Acropolis-the long, unbroken slope of a dusky autumnal yellow, and the small figures in the middle-ground almost vanishing in shadow. His large panoramic views of Edinburgh, from a distance, we scarcely think very happily selected; but there are a few studies and small compositions painted with admirable boldness and force. No. 29. appears to us particularly fine.

We are delighted with Mr Wilson's landscapes. His style is exquisitely captivating, and yet asto

nishingly simple. No one who had not seen No. 11. entitled " View on the Frith of Forth, Evening," could imagine how much effect the artist has produced from the simple materials of a calm ocean, a lowering sky, a long track of land almost unvaried in its outline, in the distance, and a single figure seated on the beach, in the foreground. The View of Leith Roads from the west of Newhaven Pier, (No. 41.) is equally striking; and Burntisland, (No. 46.) though we think the buildings ungraceful, and therefore rather too prominently brought out, is, in some parts, the finest painting in the Exhibition. The boats and figures in the foreground have all the brilliant clearness of Callcott.

Mr Simpson, whose style has a peculiar breadth and boldness, exhibits a beautiful view on the Esk, near Roslin, with some smaller pieces, of which a simple view on the Water of Leith pleases us most.

We should have been inclined to praise MrEwbank's Hannibal's Passage over the Alps exceedingly, were it not so palpable an imitation of the style of Mr Martin. Surely no one who has seen his Joshua can fail to recognise the magnificent cliff, under the town of Gibear, which overhangs the Jewish Chief, in that beautiful landscape.

We recognise one or two fine specimens of Copley Fielding,-a large view of Chepstow, in water colours, which is placed close to Mr Williams, and a composition from the Æneid, in the style of Gasper Poussin. The last is a very striking painting, and full of talent.

What could possibly induce Turner, the first landscape-painter in the world, at this day, to send nothing but a very_trumpery water-colour of the Bell-Rock, in a Storm? This is as bad as the caprice which led him to exhibit, the other year, in London, an unintelligible sketch, which he properly enough entitled "What You Will."

J. F. Williams has several very superior landscapes in this Exhibition, and Peter Gibson a very poor one.

The miniatures are few, and indifferent. On the whole, we suppose, the unavoidable conclusion is, that the Exhibition is not improving.