SELECT POETICAL PIECES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HE following pieces have been selected, with some degree of care, from the various poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, with the view of placing in the hands of the less opulent classes a pleasing specimen of productions once so deservedly popular, and still highly esteemed for their beauty of language and sentiment. The works principally selected from are the Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, and the Lady of the Lake, which were originally published between the years 1805 and 1810. The leading quality of these productions, as may be observed from our extracts, is fidelity in describing objects and appearances in nature and rural imagery, along with a charming softness of versification. Some of the lyrical pieces are also much admired.

SCOTLAND-MY NATIVE LAND.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung!

O Caledonia, stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
No. 40.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The Bard may draw his parting groan.

HYMN 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 astonished lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's 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 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, trump, 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.'

MELROSE ABBEY.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory ;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St David's ruined pile ;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

TIME.

[From The Antiquary.]

WHY sitt'st thou by that ruined hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it passed away?

'Knowest thou not me?' the Deep Voice cried, So long enjoyed, so oft misused

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused?

Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.

Redeem mine hours-the space is briefWhile in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief,

When Time and thou shall part for ever!'

THE RESOLVE.

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.

My wayward fate I needs must 'plain,
Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream :

For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask at flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile

By flattering word or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile;

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,

Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambushed Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow;

I'll lightly hold the lady's heart
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's dart,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out;
The diamond's ray abides ;

The flame its glory hurls about;

The gem its lustre hides.

Such gem I fondly deemed was mine,

And glowed a diamond stone;

But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.

Nor waking dream shall tinge my thought

With eyes so bright and vain;

No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall 'tangle me again;

No more I'll pay so dear for wit;
I'll live upon mine own;

Nor shall wild passion trouble it—
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest-
Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,
To be so strangely crost.
The widowed turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one ;

They seek no loves-no more will I—
I'll rather dwell alone.

LOVE.

AND said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?—
How could I to the dearest theme
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my harp to notes of flame!

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

DEATH OF A POET.

CALL it not vain--they do not err Who say that, when the poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies; Who say tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;