Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path

In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.
But Thou hast said, 'The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.'

Chap. xxxix.

(6.) THE BLACK KNIGHT AND WAMBA.

"At the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore a mellow burthen to the better instructed Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:—

ANNA-MARIE, love, up is the sun,

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.

Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn, The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, 'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

WAMBA.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit; For what are the joys that in waking we prove, Compared with these visions, O Tybalt! my love! Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill, Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove, But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love.

(7.)

"The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catching up the tune, replied in the like manner."

KNIGHT AND WAMBA.

There came three merry men from south, west, and north,

Evermore sing the roundelay;

To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,

And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he

came,

Ever more sing the roundelay;

And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,

And where was the widow might say him nay?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
For she was the widow would say him nay.

WAMBA.

The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,

Merrily sing the roundelay;

Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's lineage was of Wales,

And where was the widow might say him nay?

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh

Ap Tudor Ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay; She said that one widow for so many was too few,

And she bade the Welshman wend his way.

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent, Jollily singing his roundelay;

He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
And where was the widow could say

him nay?

BOTH.

So the knight and the squire were both left in the

mire,

There for to sing the roundelay;

For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
There ne'er was a widow could say him

nay. Chap. xl.

(8.) FUNERAL HYMN.

"Four maidens, Rowena leading the choir, raised a hymn for the soul of the deceased, of which we have only been able to decipher two or three stanzas: —”

DUST unto dust,

To this all must;

The tenant hath resign'd

The faded form

To waste and worm

Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown

Thy soul hath flown,

To seek the realms of woe,

Where fiery pain

Shall purge the stain

Of actions done below.

In that sad place,

By Mary's grace,

Brief may thy dwelling be!

Till prayers and alms,

And holy psalms,

Shall set the captive free.

(9.) MOTTOES.

Chap. xlii.

CHAP. XIII.

"HEROES approach!" Atrides thus aloud, "Stand forth distinguished from the circling crowd, Ye who by skill or manly force may claim Your rivals to surpass and merit fame. This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed

For him who farthest sends the winged reed."

Iliad.

CHAP. XVIII.

Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
Chequers the sun-beam in the greensward alley-
Up and away!-for lovely paths are these
To tread, when the glad sun is on his throne,
Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's lamp,
With doubtful glimmer, lights the dreary forest.
Ettrick Forest.