“O smile not, if thou e'er bestow

On others, grace I think sincere ;
Such smiles are like the beams that glow
On the dark torrent's bridge of snow,

And wreck the wretch they cheer.
Thine icy heart I well can bear,

But not the love that others share." Bright hour of rapture! who may dare to tell In her fond breast what blended feelings swell! With parted lips, clos'd eyes, and hands comprest, To still th' impetuous beatings of her breast, Listening she stood; while conscious memory strays,

To that blest hour when first she heard the lays. Ecstatic dream—at length her faltering tongue Its grief exprest in emblematic song:

"The widow'd dove can never rest,
The felon kite has robb'd her nest;
With wing untir'd she seeks her mate,
To share or change his dreadful fate."
Again she paus'd, and listening, from on high
Caught from the friendly gale the faint reply.
"But kites a higher power obey,

Th' Imperial Eagle claims the prey-
Hence! to his spacious eyrie go,
The Eagle is a nobler foe."

She strikes the harp- "Farewell! farewell!"
Her thrilling notes of transport swell:
"The monarch bird may build his nest
On oak, or tower, or mountain crest,-
But love can match his daring flight,

Can fell the tree, or scale the height." "Ho! who art thou," a surly warder calls, "That dar'st to sing beneath Trivallis' walls?" "A wandering bard, good friend, who fain would win

These awful gates to let the weary in."

Nay, hence-nor dare to touch thy harp
again,

And thank thy saints 'twas I that heard the strain;
Tir'd as thou art, fly swiftly o'er the heath,
And shun these walls as thou wouldst shun thy
death."

But was that pilgrim weary? Oh! less fleet The mountain chamois plies its fearless feet: "Farewell! my ears are blest tho' not my eyes, Thy chains shall fall," she warbles as she flies; "Thou gentle guardian of my steps, my will, Take my soul's blessing, and direct me still. At Haguenau soon the empire's magnates meet, Oh! touch the Eagle's heart-oh! guide my wandering feet."

LADY ANNE BARNARD,

Born

died 1825,

Sister of the late Earl of Balcarras, and wife of Sir Andrew Barnard, wrote the charming song of Auld Robin Gray.

A quarto tract, edited by "the Ariosto of the North," and circulated among the members of the Bannatyne Club, contains the original ballad, as corrected by Lady Anne, and two Continuations by the same authoress; while the Introduction consists almost entirely of a very interesting letter from her to the Editor, dated July 1823, part of which I take the liberty of inserting here:

"Robin Gray,' so called from its being the name of the

old herd at Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London; I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was passionately fond;

who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady Hard

wicke, who was the only person near me, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea-and broken her father's arm-and made her mother fall sick-and given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines, poor thing! Help me to one.'' Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our fireside, and amongst our neighbours, 'Auld Robin Gray' was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met with; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully kept my own secret."

Meantime, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a dispute, it afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. Robin Gray' was either a very very ancient ballad, composed perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a very very modern matter, and no curiosity at all. I was persecuted to avow whether I had written it or not,-where I had got it. Old Sophy kept my counsel, and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more flattering circumstance of a visit from Mr. Jerningham, secretary to the Antiquarian Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the question obligingly, I should

have told him the fact distinctly and confidentially. The annoyance, however, of this important ambassador from the Antiquaries, was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of the Ballat of Auld Robin Gray's Courtship,' as performed by dancing-dogs under my window. It proved its popularity from the highest to the lowest, and gave me pleasure while I hugged myself in my obscurity."

The two versions of the second part were written many years after the first; in them, Auld Robin Gray falls sick,-confesses that he himself stole the cow, in order to force Jenny to marry him,-leaves to Jamie all his possessions,dies,—and the young couple, of course, are united. Neither of the Continuations is given here, because, though both are beautiful, they are very inferior to the original tale, and greatly injure its effect.

Auld Robin Gray.*

1.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows

come hame,

When a' the weary world to quiet rest are gane, The woes of heart fa' in showers frae my ee,

my

Unken'd by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by

me.

* The text of the corrected copy is followed.