And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still both limb and tongue,

While, through vaulted roof and aisles aloof,
The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
And falter'd in the sound-

And, when he would the chalice rear,
He dropp'd it to the ground.

"The breath of one of evil deed
Pollutes our sacred day;
He has no portion in our creed,
No part in what I say.

"A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring;

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
Recoils each holy thing.

66 Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!"—

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,
In gown of sackcloth gray;
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear, *
I ween he had not spoke,

And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock

Seem'd none more bent to pray; But, when the Holy Father spoke, He rose and went his way.

Again unto his native land
His weary course he drew,

To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

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
Her noblest pour'd their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid
By blast of bugle free,1

To Auchendinny's hazel glade, 2

And haunted Woodhouselee. $

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,⭑
And Roslin's rocky glen,"
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, 6
And classic Hawthornden ?7

Yet never a path, from day to day,
The pilgrim's footsteps range,

Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruin'd grange.

A woful place was that, I ween,

As sorrow could desire;

For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,

And the roof was scath'd 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 gray with red;

And the convent bell did vespers tell,
Newbattle's oaks among,

And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,

And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,
As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,

Nor ever raised his eye,

1 See Note 1 of the "NOTES TO THE GRAY BROTHER" in the Appendix. The figures of reference throughout the poem relate to further Notes in the Appendix.

Until he came to that dreary place,
Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,
With many a bitter groan-

And 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.

WAR-SONG

OF THE

ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS

"Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

"Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest,
Had we a difference with some petty isle,

Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,

Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued:
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,

The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome-

It must not be-No! as they are our foes,

Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes."-

Bonduca.

THE following War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of Gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus-"Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate." 1812.

WAR-SONG.

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,

The bugles sound the call;

The Gallic navy stems the seas,

The voice of battle's on the breeze,

Arouse ye, one and all!

Froin high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue."

Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzere vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

Oh! had they mark'd the avenging call
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,
Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,

The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our king, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-color,

Or footstep of invader rude,

With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore,

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!

Adieu, each tender tie!

a The royal colours.

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 10th August 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the Continent, have at length been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved.-1812.