Nor in her fostering fancy perish'd

E'en things inanimate that had supplied
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love,
Active and warm, which nothing might restrain,
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove
To distant southern climes, and once again
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore,

She would not e'en their folly chide,
But like the sun and showers of heaven,
Which to the false and true are given,
Want and distress relieved on either side.

LIV.

But soon, from fear of future change,

LI.

Fondly that homely house she eyed,
The door, the windows, every thing
Which to her back-cast thoughts could bring
The scenes of other days.-Then she applied
To knocker bright her thrilling hand,
And begg'd, as strangers in the land,
Admittance from the household dame,
And thus preferred her gentle claim:
"This house was once my happy home,
Its rooms, its stair, I fain would see;
Its meanest nook is dear to me,

The northern farmers, spoil'd and bare,
No more could rent or produce spare

To the soil's lords. All were distress'd,
And on our noble dame this evil sorely press'd.
Her household numerous, her means withheld
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss
To rob or starve, in such a time as this,

Or wrong to others do? but nothing quell'd

Her calm and upright mind." Go, summon here
Those who have served me many a year."

The summons went; each lowly name
Full swiftly to her presence came,

And thus she spoke: "Ye've served me long,
Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong,

And now, my friendly neighbours, true

But whatsoe'er the weal or wo

That Heaven across her lot might throw,
Full well her Christian spirit knew
Its path of virtue, straight and true.
When came the shock of evil times, menacing
The peaceful land-when blood and lineage tracing
As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite
Of Britain's weal or will, chiefs of the north,
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth,
Brave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved,
Would they a better cause had served!
For Stuart's dynasty to fight,
Distress to many a family came,

Who dreaded more the approaching shame
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien,
Than e'en the pang of hunger keen.
How softly then her pity flow'd!
How freely then her hand bestow'd!
She did not question their opinion
Of party, kingship, or dominion:

And simply I will deal with you.

The times are shrewd, my treasures spent,

My farms have ceased to yield me rent;

And it may chance that rent or grain

I never shall receive again.

The dainties which my table fed,
Will now be changed for daily bread,
Dealt sparely, and for this I must
Be debtor to your patient trust,

If ye consent."-Swift through the hall,
With eager haste, spoke one and all.
"No, noble dame! this must not be !
With heart as warm and hand as free,
Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride,
As when fair fortune graced your side.
The best of all our stores afford
Shall daily smoke upon thy board;
And, shouldst thou never clear the score,
Heaven for thy sake will bless our store."
She bent her head with courtesy,

The big tear swelling in her eye,

And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare,
She order'd still her household fare,
Till fortune's better die was cast,
And adverse times were past.

LV.

Good, tender, generous, firm and sage,
Through grief and gladness, shade and sheen,
As fortune changed life's motley scene,
Thus pass'd she on to reverend age.
And when the heavenly summons came,
Her spirit from its mortal frame
And weight of mortal cares to free,

It was a blessed sight to see,

The parting saint her state of honour keeping

In gifted, dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping Her children's children mourn'd on bended knee.

LVI.

In London's fair imperial town
She laid her earthly burden down.
In Mellerstain, her northern home.

Then dark, dark lower'd the baron's eye,
And his red cheek changed to wan;
For again at the gate more furiously,
The thundering din began.

"And is there ne'er of my vassals here,
Of high or low degree,
That will unto this stranger go,—
Will go for the love of me?"

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red,— (A fearless man was he,)

"Yes; I will straight to the castle gate, Lord John, for the love of thee."

With heart full stout, he hied him out,

Whilst silent all remain ;

Nor moved a tongue those gallants among,
Till Donald return'd again.

"O speak," said his lord, " by thy hopes of grace, What stranger must we hail ?"

But the haggard look of Donald's face

Made his faltering words to fail.

"It is a knight in some foreign guise,
His like did I never behold;

For the stony look of his beamless eyes
Made my very life-blood cold.

"I did him greet in fashion meet,

And bade him your feast partake,

But the voice that spoke, when he silence broke, Made the earth beneath me quake.

"O such a tone did tongue ne'er own
That dwelt in mortal head ;-

It is like a sound from the hollow ground,-
Like the voice of the coffin'd dead.

"I bade him to your social board. But in he will not hie,

Until at the gate this castle's lord

Shall entreat him courteously.

Where he unblest was put to rest,

On a wild and distant shore.

"Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave Give up their dead again?

Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast
The spirits of the slain ?"

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd
The big drops from his brow,

As louder still the third time roar'd
The thundering gate below.

"O rouse thee, baron, for manhood's worth!
Let good or ill befall,

Thou must to the stranger knight go forth,
And ask him to your hall."

"Rouse thy bold breast," said each eager guest, "What boots it shrinking so?

Be it fiend, or sprite, or murder'd knight,
In God's name thou must go.

"Why shouldst thou fear? dost thou not wear
A gift from the great Glendower,
Sandals blest by a holy priest,

O'er which naught ill hath power?"

All ghastly pale did the baron quail,
As he turn'd him to the door,
And his sandals blest, by a holy priest,
Sound feebly on the floor.

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all,
He cast his parting eye,

"God send thee amain, safe back again!" He heaved a heavy sigh.

Then listen'd they, on the lengthen'd way,

To his faint and lessening tread, And, when that was past, to the wailing blast, That wail'd as for the dead.

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew, And it rose with an elrich sound,

smile,

And sternly bade me say,

'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask

To the feast of the woody bay."

Pale grew the baron, and faintly said,
As he heaved his breath with pain,

"From such a feast as there was spread,
Do any return again?

"I bade my guest to a bloody feast,

Where the death's wound was his fare,

And the isle's bright maid, who my love betray'd, She tore her raven hair.

"The seafowl screams, and the watch-tower gleams, And the deafening billows roar,

Fell hurling to the ground.

Each fearful eye then glanced on high,
To the lofty-window'd wall,

When a fiery trace of the baron's face
Through the casements shone on all.

But the vision'd glare pass'd through the air,
And the raging tempest ceased,
And never more on sea or shore,

Was seen Lord John of the East.

The sandals, blest by a holy priest, Lay unscath'd on the swarded green, But never again on land or main,

Lord John of the East was seen.

JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow, April 22, 1765. He studied law in Edinburgh, and became in 1795 a member of the faculty of advocates. But the profession was not to his taste, and as he was not obliged to pursue it for a living he devoted himself to literature. He published "Mary, Queen of Scots," a dramatic poem; "The Sabbath," his best known work; "The Birds of Scotland;" and "British Georgics." "The Sabbath" was at first published anonymously. "Ah, Jamie," said his wife, who

THE SABBATH.

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's
song.

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the
dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms-the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, peace o'er yon village
broods;

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on

man,

Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldly bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's
cold

And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, imbosom'd in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy

Of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls:
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved
ground.

The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well
pleased;

These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns.
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Arise and read th' anointed shepherd's lays.
His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look
Of love, it speaks: "Ye are my children all;
The gray-hair'd man, stooping upon his staff,
As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye
Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome."
Loud swells the song: O how that simple song,
Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart,
Commingling soul with soul in one full tide
Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust!
Next comes the unpremeditated prayer,
Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low,
But earnest.-Alter'd is the tone; to man
Are now address'd the sacred speaker's words.
Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace,
Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!

It is most needed in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy;
The stranger to discern th' Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still!
"Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice
Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear;

And see the father raise the white-robed babe
In solemn dedication to the Lord:

The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretch'd hand
The face of innocence; then earnest turns,
And prays a blessing in the name of Him
Who said, Let little children come to me;
Forbid them not: the infant is replaced
Among the happy band: they, smilingly,
In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth,
The poor man's festival, a jubilee day,
Remember'd long.

Nor would I leave unsung
The lofty ritual of our sister land:
In vestment white, the minister of God
Opens the book, and reverentially

The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
'Then swells into a diapason full:

The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a mellow'd stop controls,
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the choir: Sublime,
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still his heart is cheer'd;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise,-
"Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless his name, who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets,
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye."
It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands-
The vaulted firmament: Far in the woods,

"And they brought young children to him that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis.

pleased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily, I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them." Mark x. 13-16.

Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
When not a floweret bends its little stalk,
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom-
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon;
Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean.―

Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy.
In some lone glen, where every sound is lull'd
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretch'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conn'd
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. O blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race, to godliness devote.

What though the skeptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! what though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, religion and the law,
With superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture and in death,-
These on tradition's tongue still live; these shall
On history's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd
To death;-old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, See where the Lord
Was laid, joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they
sought

The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers

seem

Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye; in solitudes like these,
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws :
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Wnose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,)
The lyart veteran heard the word of God