ST. CLYDE.

ST. CLYDE;

A NOVEL

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

“ This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart has ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand ?

Scors.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR GALE AND FENNER,

PATERNOSTER-ROW,
By S. Hamilton, Weybridge, Surrey.

ST. CLYDE.

CHAPTER I.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

SHAKSPEARE, WHEN matters had proceeded pretty well with Louis and Norah, Mon. Vil.. lejuive hinted to the Laird St. Clyde, that a match between them would not only be desirable to himself, but to his son particularly, and he believed to the family and friends of St. Clyde. The laird at once made the most violent objections to the very insinuation; and roundly told Mon. Villejuive, that so

VOL. II.

B