AND now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,

A far projecting precipice.

The broom's tough roots his ladder made,

The hazel saplings lent their aid;

And thus an airy point he won,

Where, gleaming with the setting sun,

One burnish'd sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light,

And mountains, that like giants stand,

To sentinel enchanted land.

High on the south, huge Benvenue

Down on the lake in masses threw

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd, The fragments of an earlier world;

A wildering forest feather'd o'er

His ruin'd sides and summit hoar,

While on the north, through middle air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
From the steep promontory gazed
The stranger, raptured and amazed.
And, "What a scene were here," he cried,
"For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!
On this bold brow, a lordly tower;
In that soft vale, a lady's bower;

On yonder meadow, far away,

The turrets of a cloister gray;

How blithely might the bugle-horn

Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn!

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute

Chime, when the groves were still and mute!

And, when the midnight moon should lave

Her forehead in the silver wave,

How solemn on the ear would come

The holy matins' distant hum,

While the deep peal's commanding tone
Should wake in yonder islet lone,
A sainted hermit from his cell,
To drop a bead with every knell-
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,
Should each bewilder'd stranger call
To friendly feast, and lighted hall.

HYNY OF THE HEBREW MAID.

WHEN Israel of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,

Her father's God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day along the astonish'd lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery pillar's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen;

And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

With priests' and warriors' voice between. No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen,
To temper the deceitful ray.

And, ho! 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, trump, and horn,
But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

THE SUU UPOU THE WIERD LAW-HILL.

THE sun upon the Wierdlaw-hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet,
The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet.

Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;

Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,-
Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!