O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls, On thy blue hills no bugle sound Thou lead'st the chase no more. Thy gates are clos'd, thy halls are still- Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke; One lay to mourn thy fate he woke, No other theme to him is dear Than lofty deeds of thine; Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear, both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal which we conceive it so well calculated to afford. XXV. MONIMIA. The bell had toll'd the midnight hour,— Monimia sought the shade, The cheerless yew tree marked the spot Where Leontine was laid. With soft and trembling steps, the maid A tear-drop glisten'd on her cheek, Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook, Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale, Dew'd with the tear of sorrow, While oft she press'd her lover's grave, Nor wak'd with dawn of morrow. XXVI. AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT. AIR.-"Jockey's gray breeks." Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e! In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me, in glen or shaw, And maun I still, &c. The merry plowboy cheers his team, And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, And maun I still, &c. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And maun I still, &c. XXVII. THE MINSTREL. A Fragment. Silent and sad the minstrel sat, And thought on the days of yore; He was old, yet he lov'd his native land, Tho' his harp could charm no more. The winds of heaven died away, And the moon in the valley slept, The minstrel lean'd on his olden harp, And o'er its strains he wept. In youth he had stood by the Wallace side, When Edward vow'd with his English host But the Wallace wight was dead and gone, And dark was the hall where the minstrel sung P |