Keep. It is not food: I bring wherewith, my lord,
To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft

Hath griev'd me, when I've thought of you o' nights;
Thro' it the cold wind visits you.

Ed. And let it enter! it shall not be stopp'd.
Who visits me besides the winds of heaven?
Who mourns with me but the sad-sighing wind?
Who bringeth to mine ear the mimic'd tones
Of voices once belov'd and sounds long past
But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind?
Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek
As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows
But the free piteous wind?

I will not have it stopp'd.

Keep. My lord, the winter now creeps on apace:
Hoar frost this morning on our shelter'd fields
Lay thick, and glanc'd to the up-risen sun,

Which scarce had power to melt it.

Ed. Glanc'd to the up-risen sun! Ay, such fair morns, When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on,

Like a gemm❜d bride! your rustics now

And early hinds, will set their clouted feet
Thro' silver webs, so bright and finely wrought
As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on
Their careless way, unheeding.

advances,

Alas, how many glorious things there be
To look upon! Wear not the forests, now,
Their latest coat of richly varied dyes?
Keep. Yes, my good lord, the cold chill year
Therefore I pray you, let me close that wall.
Ed. I tell thee no, man; if the north air bites,
Bring me a cloak. Where is thy dog to day?
Keep. Indeed I wonder that he came not with me
As he is wont.

Ed. Bring him, I pray thee, when thou com'st again He wags his tail and looks up to my face

With the assured kindliness of one

Who has not injured me.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

It has been said it is a happy circumstance for us of the nineteenth century, that we live in the age of the author of Waverly. At the time this remark was made, the author of Waverly was unknown. For more than ten years the press at Edinburgh sent forth a succession of novels, which entertained the whole reading world. Waverly was the first of these charming books, and the author studiously concealed himself from the curiosity of the public. The author of Waverly was rightly suspected to be Walter Scott. About the year 1805, the Lay of the Last Minstrel was published. This poem was acknowledged to be the production of Mr. Scott. He is a native of Scotland, curious in the antiquities of that country, and has long been known for his researches into Scottish poetry, for his talent of general criticism, and his poetic invention.

After the publication of the Lay, Scott wrote Marmion, and several other metrical romances of extraordinary beauty. The novels before mentioned bear may re semblances to the poems, and on these resemblances was founded the presumption that the poet was also the novelist. All conjecture upon this subject has been put at rest, by the declaration of Sir Walter Scott that he is in truth the author of Waverly.

This great poet has with much propriety been compared with Shakspeare. "Shakspeare," says Mr. Campbell, "lived in an age within the verge of chivalry, an age overflowing with chivalrous and romantic reading; he was led by his vocation to have daily recourse to that kind of reading; he dwelt on the spot which gave him constant access to it, and was in habitual intercourse with men of genius."

Sir Walter Scott has lived now that the "age of chivalry is gone;" but his country overflows with romantic reading and traditions, and his genius seems to have taken its inspirations and the subjects of invention chiefly from these sources-from the states of society, the character and

sentiments of men of various ranks, as they are recorded to have existed under the influences of the feudal state, and the times immediately succeeding; like Shakspeare, he has the talent each change of many-coloured life to draw, to move laughter and to excite tears. The parallelism between these great men, however, applies rather to the attributes of their genius than to their fortune in life. Mediocrity of fortune, and a moderate estimate of his talents, was all the outward meed awarded to Shakspeare by his contemporaries.

Homer says of poets, they are regarded as divine beings, "far as the sun displays his vital fire.". But few poets have the happiness to live in the “blaze of their fame" as Scott has done. Wherever English is read, there the poems and the novels of the immortal Northern Minstrel are known; and from every region where they are known, the tribute of praise and admiration is offered to him. On the accession of George IV. the present king of England, (1820) one. of the first acts of his reign was to bestow on Mr. Scott thek of baronet, and he has since been known as Sir Walter Scott. The pecuniary profit derived to him from his works has been great, and the distinguished minds of his time have looked up to him as the first of living men.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel consists of a tale in verse, supposed to be recited by a wandering minstrel who took refuge in the castle of Anne, Dutchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685.

The minstrel recites to the Dutchess, and her ladies, a story of her ancestors.

THE LAST MINSTREL.

"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 oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High plac'd in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were chang'd, old manners gone; A stranger fill'd the Stuart's throne ;

The bigots of the iron time

Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door;
And tun'd, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp, a king had lov'd to hear.

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

The embattl'd portal-arch he pass'd,
Whose pondrous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never clos'd the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.

The Dutchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mein, 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;

In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!
When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,

Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, rest him God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode :

And how full many a tale he knew,
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch ;
And, would the noble Dutchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she lov'd the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain'd;
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd.
But when he reach'd the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wish'd 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 Dutchess prais'd 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;
He had play'd it to king Charles the Good,~
When he kept court in Holyrood;