Vain was all aid; in terror wild,
And sorrow, screamed the orphan child.

Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes,
And faintly strove to soothe his cries.
All reckless of his dying pain,
He blest, and blest him o'er again!
And kissed the little hands outspread,
And kissed and crossed the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Prayed to each saint to watch his days;
Then all his strength together drew,
The charge to Rokeby to renew.

When half was faltered from his breast,
And half by dying signs expressed,
"Bless the O'Neale!" he faintly said,
And thus the faithful spirit fled.

'Twas long ere soothing might prevail
Upon the child to end the tale :

And then he said, that from his home
His grandsire had been forced to roam.
'Twas from his broken phrase descried,
His foster-father was his guide,

Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore
Letters, and gifts a goodly store,
But ruffians met them in the wood.
Ferraught in battle boldly stood,

Till wounded and o'erpowered at length,
And stripped of all, his failing strength
Just bore him here.

FROM SCOTT.

CCXXXIX.-SCOTLAND.

SOLWAY; a bay on the southern boundary of Scotland.

LOCH KATRINE; a lake in the north.

SCOTLAND! There is magic in the sound. Statesmen, scholars, divines, heroes, and poets! do you want exemplars worthy of study and imitation?

find them brighter than in Scotland?

Where will you

Where can you

find them purer than in Scotland? Here no Solon, indulging imagination, has pictured the perfectibility of man. No Lycurgus, viewing him through the medium of human frailty alone, has left for his government an iron code graven on eternal adamant. No Plato, dreaming in the luxurious gardens of the Academy, has fancied what he should be, and bequeathed a republic of love. But sages, knowing their weakness, have appealed to his understanding, cherished his virtues, and chastised his vices.

Friends of learning! would you do homage at the shrine of literature? Would you visit her clearest founts? Go to Scotland. Are you philosophers, seeking to explore the hidden mysteries of mind? Bend to the genius of Stewart! Student, merchant, or mechanic! do you seek usefulness? Consult the pages of Black and of Adam Smith! Grave barrister! would you know the law; the true, the sole expression of the people's will? There stands the mighty Mansfield!

Servants of Him, whose name is above every other name, and not to be mentioned! recur to days that are past; to days that can never be blotted from the history of the church. Visit the mountains of Scotland: contemplate the stern Cameronian, the rigid covenanter, the enduring puritan. Follow them to their burrows beneath the earth; to their dark, bleak caverns in the rocks. See them hunted like beasts of prey. See them emaciated, worn with disease, clung with famine; yet laboring with supernatural zeal in feeding the hungry with that bread. which gives life forevermore. Go view them, and when you preach faith, hope, charity, fortitude, and long-suffering, forget them not; the meek, the bold, the patient, gallant puritans of Scotland.

Land of the mountain, the torrent, and dale! Do we look for high examples of noble daring? Where shall we find them brighter than in Scotland? From the "bonny highland heather" of her lofty summits, to the modest lily of the vale, not a flower but has blushed with patriot blood. From the proud foaming crest of Solway, to the calm polished breast of Loch Katrine, not a river or lake

but has swelled with the life-tide of freemen! Would you witness greatness? Contemplate a Wallace and a Bruce. They fought not for honors, for party, for conquest. 'Twas for their country and their country's good, religion, liberty, and law.

Would you ask for chivalry? that high and delicate sense of honor, which deems a stain upon one's country as individual disgrace: that moral courage which measures danger, and meets it against known odds: that patriot valor, which would rather repose on a death-bed of laurels, than flourish in wealth and power under the night-shade of depotism? Citizen soldier! turn to Lochiel; "proud bird of the mountain!" Though pierced with the usurper's arrow, his plumage still shines through the cloud of oppression, lighting to honor all who nobly dare to "do or die."

CCXL.-THE LAST MINSTREL.-No. I.

IN former times, before the art of printing was invented, and when there were few educated men, there was in England and Scotland a class of men of genius and education, who were called Minstrels. They spent their lives in wandering from castle to castle, and singing, with the harp as accompaniment, such poetic descriptions of romantic scenes and historic legends, as suited the taste of the times. Walter Scott, in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," introduces one of the last of this class, in poetry worthy of the theme, from which the following extract is taken.

SOOTH; truth. YARROW; a Scottish stream. NEWARK; the castle at which the Duchess entertained the Minstrel. This may be spoken by itself or in connection with the succeeding exercise.

THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of border chivalry.

For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, neglected and opprest,
Wished to be with them and at rest.

No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroled light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay.

A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He passed, where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
The minstrel gazed with wishful eye:
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step at last,

The embattled portal-arch he passed,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.

The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well;
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree.

When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,

Began to rise his minstrel pride:

And, would the noble Duchess deign

To listen to an old man's strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought e'en yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He would make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtained;
The aged Minstrel audience gained.

But when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied:
For when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease,
Which marks security to please:
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain;
He tried to tune his harp in vain.

The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls.
And much he wished, yet feared to try
The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighted up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
With eloquence the Minstrel sung.
FROM SCOTT.