His unblest feet his native seat, 'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main. And lords to meet the pilgrim came, And vassals bent the knee; For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, Was none more famed than he. And boldly for his country, still, In battle he had stood, Ay, even when on the banks of Till Impervious to the sun. There the rapt poet's step may rove, From that fair dome, where suit is paid, To Auchendinny's hazel glade, And haunted Woodhouselee. Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, And Roslin's rocky glen, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, And classic Hawthornden ? Yet never a path, from day to day, Save but the solitary way To Burndale's ruin'd grange. A woful place was that, I ween, For nodding to the fall was each crum. bling wall, And the roof was scathed with fire. It fell upon a summer's eve, While, on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams Had streak'd the grey with red; Newbattle's oaks among, The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, As his wonted path he did find. Until he came to that dreary place, He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, With many a bitter groanAnd there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone. "Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother; "Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he. "O come ye from east, or come ye from west, Or bring reliques from over the sea; Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine, Or St. John of Beverley?"— "I come not from the shrine of St. James the divine, Nor bring reliques from over the sea; I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope, Which for ever will cling to me." Now, woful pilgrim, say not so ! But kneel thee down to me, And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, That absolved thou mayst be.""And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee, When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven, Has no power to pardon me?"— "O I am sent from a distant clime, Five thousand miles away, And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, Done here 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye— When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye. GG THE RESOLVE. IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM. [1809.] Published anonymously in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808. My wayward fate I needs must plain, Yet all was but a dream; For, as her love was quickly got, No more I'll bask in flame so hot, Not maid more bright than maid was My fancy shall beguile, By flattering word, or feigned tear, No more I'll call the shaft fair shot Nor scorch me at a flame so hot; In cheek, or chin, or brow, The flaunting torch soon blazes out, The diamond's ray abides; Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, No waking dream shall tinge my With dyes so bright and vain, No more I'll pay so dear for wit, And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,— To be so strangely crost : They seek no loves-no more will I- NORA'S VOW. AIR-" Cha teid mis a chaoidh." * WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. [1816.] + In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red Earl's son, until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lakeuntil one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mind-except the vehemence of her protestation. FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. [1814.] O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, O, then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow, Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In toils for our country preserved by his care, Nor forget his grey head, who, all dark in affliction, By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim ! Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, PHAROS LOQUITUR. "On the 30th July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff, Commissioners, along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and the writer, visited the Lighthouse; the Commissioners being then on one of their voyages of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon inscribing his name in the Album, added these interesting lines."-STEVENSON'S Account of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. 1824 FAR in the bosom of the deep, O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep ; MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, called "The Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. at Edinburgh. I In a note prefixed, Mr. James Ballantyne says, "The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind. 'He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, 'determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown;' and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceased-were resumed-rose again--were reiterated-and again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him), to deliver his farewell. Mr. Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional life for ever.” As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past, And that those valued plaudits are my last. Why should we part, while still some powers remain, |