may perhaps be laid ere any eye but my own glances over these pages. He died September twenty-first, 1832.

'It was,' says Lockhart, a beautiful day, so warm that every win dow was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.'

On the twenty-sixth of the same month, he was laid beside his wife, in St. Mary's aisle, the most beautiful part of the ruins. There that eldest son, who had closed and kissed his eyes, was afterward laid beside him. There is something beautifully touching in this laying down of friends to rest together. The feeling which prompts it is natural to the human heart. The aged Oneida Indian, who had almost reached his hundred years, finding death approaching, desired to be carried and laid in the grave at the feet of his Christian teacher, who had long preceded him; 'for,' said he, 'I want to go up with him at the great resurrection.'

It was mid-summer when I stood near these graves. A plain marble monument covers them. The summer breeze stirred gently the dark, thick leaves of the overhanging trees. The birds which nestled in teh branches seemed to sing in subdued tones. I was alone, and busy memory called up in rapid succession the incidents, the trials, and the triumphs of a life so full of interest. It was not without emotion that I turned away from this 'hoary Abbey of Dryburgh, surrounded with yew trees as ancient as itself.'

The touching address of him who slept there, to his own minstrel harp, was on my lips :

'HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark;
The deer half seen are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending
And the wild breeze thy wilder minstrelsy.

Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending
With distant echo from the fold and lea

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

'Yet once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!
Yet once again forgive my feeble sway;
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devoured alone;

That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress, is thine own.

"Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some spirit of the air has waked thy string;
'Tis now a seraph bold with touch of fire;
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring,
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;
And now the mountain-breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell;

And now, 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee well!'

THE SPANISH

ALARM - BELL.

BY ISAAC MACLELLAN,

DURING the invasion of Spain by the French armies, in 1809, all classes of people flew to arms at the sounding of the Somaten. The Somatenes are the levy-en masse, which, by an ancient law of Catalonia, are bound to turn out and defend their parishes, whenever the 3omaten is heard from the belfries

From that grand city peals the spire
Cross-crown'd and glittering like fire;
From each cathedral-dome sublime,
The crashing bells swing out their chime.
Rings out the summons full and bold,
From fortalice and castle old;
From village chapels far away,
Embosomed amid woodlands gay,
Rings out the 'larum, not the peal,
That bids the worshipper to kneel

Where swings the censer, while the priest
Devoutly shares the sacred feast:

No! 'tis a sound more fierce and grand

That swelleth over Spanish land;

And thus in earthquake-tones it calls
To all Castilian huts and halls.

IV.

Arm for the battle! arm for strife;
Arm with the musket and the knife;

Arm, sailor, at the breezy port;

Arm, soldier, in the mountain fort;

Arm, noble, in your gilded room;

Seize casque and weapon, blade and plume;
Vine-dressers, leave the half-pruned vine,
To lavish ruddier drops than wine;
In the brown glebe leave plough and steer;
The harvest of the dead draws near.

Asturian and Gallician boor,

From fastness of your mountains pour;
The shepherd of La Mancha's plain,
From old Castile the jocund swain;
The Andalusian, soft yet stern,
Whose veins with Moorish ardor burn;
Let the Valencian all forget

His citron grove and castanet;

Let all, a vengeful multitude,

Rush to the harvest-field of blood!

VI.

With lusty sinews swing the bell!
To the invading French a knell !
Poor Spain deplores, all gashed and gored,
Her king despoiled of crown and sword;
Her princes and her nobles spurned,
Her cities sacked, her villas burned!
The foe in bivouac pitch their tent
Beneath Spain's purpled firmament.
By Ebro's bank and Douro's stream,
And where the tides of Tagus gleam,
Their circles of resplendent steel
Round your beleaguered cities wheel-
An iron girdle keen and red,
Ensanguined by your noble dead.

VII.

They smite your gates with scornful blade; They storm them in fierce escalade;

They plant their guns your ramparts near,
And 'gainst them scaling-ladders rear;

They breach the strong-holds where of yore
The gallant Cid beat back the Moor;
Their siege-trains from each embrasure
A storm of hurtling missiles pour;
Fascines and gabions they prepare,

Their bomb-shells light the midnight air;
Their cannon, with the iron hail
With carnage paint each myrtle vale!

VIII.

Ring wide the tocsin! tower and rock,
Till reel your belfries with the shock.
King JOSEPH, the usurper, comes,

With prancing pomp and rattling drums;
But bells that greet him seem to toll
For ghastly corpse than living soul!

IX.

Ring out the 'larum! for the foe

At Baylen hath been humbled low;

Valencia's, Saragossa's wall

The Frenchman's shattered ranks appal;

And soon the noble realm of Spain
Enfranchised shall exult amain.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW FOR JANUARY QUARTER. pp. 264. Boston: CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY.

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THIS strikes us, on a hasty perusal, as a very excellent and various number of our old established Quarterly. Its articles, which are ten in number, with the usual briefer Critical Notices,' are upon the following themes: BUNSEN'S 'HIPPOLYTUS and his AGE;' WAYLAND'S Life of Dr. JUDSON;' 'GIRONIERE and the Phillippine Islands;' 'MILL on the Theory of Causation;' 'The Life and Death of LOUIS XVII.;' GROTE'S History of Greece;' 'Memoirs of FRANCIS HORNER;' A Frontier Missionary and Loyalist;' 'Early French Poetry; and HAMILTON'S ' Memoirs of ROBERT RANTOUL, Jr.' The review of WAYLAND'S Life of JUDSON is a very interesting résume of the volumes, and embodies a succinct account of the life and character of that devoted missionary. It is a fact, of which until now we were ignorant, that Dr. JUDSON, previous to his conversion, was attached for a time to a theatrical company. But he entered, very soon after joining a Christian church, upon the high duties of his arduous, self-denying and perilous mission. His labors, his patient waiting for results, his imprisonment, his suffering, and the untiring, holy devotion of his wife, impart to the article, as to the volumes of which it is the subject, a rare although often painful interest. We quote the following tribute from the present Mrs. JUDSON to her predecessor in the affections of her devoted husband:

'SOMETIMES, for weeks together, they had no food but rice, savored with nagapee- a certain preparation of fish, not always palatable to foreigners. But once, when a term of unusual quiet gave her time for the softer and more homely class of loving thoughts, Mrs. JUDSON made a great effort to surprise her husband with something that should remind him of home. She planned and labored, until, by the aid of buffalo beef and plantains, she actually concocted a mince pie. Unfortunately, as she thought, she could not go in person to the prison that day; and the dinner was brought by smiling Moung ING, who seemed aware that some mystery must be wrapped up in that peculiar preparation of meat and fruit, although he had never seen the well-spread boards of Plymouth and Bradford. But the pretty little artifice only added another pang to a heart whose susceptibilities were as quick and deep as, in the sight of the world, they were silent. When his wife had visited him in prison, and borne taunts and insults with and for him, they could be brave together; when she had stood up like an enchantress, winning the hearts of high and low, making savage jailers, and scarcely less savage nobles, weep; or moved, protected by her own dignity and sublimity of purpose, like a queen along the streets, his heart had throbbed with proud admiration; and he

was almost able to thank God for the trials which had made a character so intrinsically noble shine forth with such peculiar brightness. But in this simple, home-like act, this little, unpretending effusion of a loving heart, there was something so touching, so unlike the part she had just been acting, and yet so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed his head upon his knees, and the tears flowed down to the chains about his ankles.'

We quote a passage from Dr. JUDSON's earlier narrative, describing a visit which he paid to the imperial city of Ava, to hold an interview with the emperor. It is exceedingly graphic:

"THE scene to which we were now introduced really surpassed our expectation. The spacious extent of the hall, the number and magnitude of the pillars, the height of the dome, the whole completely covered with gold, presented a most grand and imposing spectacle. Very few were present, and those evidently great officers of state. Our situation prevented us from seeing the farther avenue of the hall; but the end where we sat opened into the parade which the emperor was about to inspect. We remained about five minutes, when every one put himself into the most respectful attitude, and Moung Yo whispered that his majesty had entered. We looked through the hall as far as the pillars would allow, and presently caught sight of this modern AHASUERUS. He came forward unattended- in solitary grandeur-exhibiting the proud gait and majesty of an Eastern monarch. His dress was rich, but not distinctive; and he carried in his hand the gold-sheathed sword, which seems to have taken the place of the sceptre of ancient times. But it was his high aspect and commanding eye that chiefly riveted our attention. He strided on. Every head excepting ours was now in the dust. We remained kneeling, our hands folded, our eyes fixed on the monarch. When he drew near, we caught his attention. He stopped, partly turned toward us: "Who are these?'

The teachers, great King,' I replied.

What, you speak Burman-the priests that I heard of last night?' 'When did you arrive? Are you teachers of religion?' 'Are you like the Portuguese priest?' Are you married?" Why do you dress so?'

These, and some other similar questions, we answered, when he appeared to be pleased with us, and sat down on an elevated seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes intently fixed on us. Moung ZAH now began to read the petition. The emperor heard the petition, and stretched out his hand. Moung ZAH crawled forward and presented it. His Majesty began at the top, and deliberately read it through. In the mean time, I gave Moung ZAH an abridged copy of the tract, in which every offensive sentence was corrected, and the whole put into the handsomest style and dress possible. After the emperor had perused the petition, he handed it back without saying a word, and took the tract. Our hearts now rose to GoD for a display of His grace. O, have mercy on Burmah! Have mercy on her king!' But alas! the time was not vet come. He held the tract long enough to read the first two sentences, which assert that there is one eternal GOD, who is independent of the incidents of mortality, and that beside HIM there is no God; and then, with an air of indifference, perhaps disdain, he dashed it down to the ground. Moung ZAH stooped forward, picked it up, and handed it to us. Moung Yo made a slight attempt to save us by unfolding one of the volumes, which composed our present, and displaying its beauty; but his Majesty took no notice. Our fate was decided. After a few moments, Moung ZAH interpreted his Royal Master's will in the following terms: Why do you ask for such permission? Have not the Portuguese, the English, the Mussulmans, and people of all other religions, full liberty to practice and worship according to their own customs? In regard to the objects of your petition, his Majesty gives no order. In regard to your sacred books, his Majesty has no use for them: take them away.'

'He then rose from his seat, strided on to the end of the hall, and there, after having dashed to the ground the first intelligence that he had ever received of the eternal GOD, his MAKER, his PRESERVER, his JUDGE, he threw himself down on a cushion, and lay listening to the music, and gazing at the parade spread out before him.'

เ

While we had a friend and correspondent at the Phillippine Islands, (now, alas! no more,) we should have been at once attracted to the review of M. GIRONIERE'S Work; but we left it, with its successor, MILL on 'Causation,' to peruse, with pleasure, the paper on the life and death of LOUIS the Seventeenth, one of the most comprehensive and admirably-written articles in the number. GROTE'S History of Greece' we have reserved for future perusal; but the 'Memoirs of FRANCIS HORNER,' an interesting and instructive paper, was not