Go round, my wheel, go round He for whom the badge I twine, CCLXXV. THE MINSTREL'S LAY OF DEATH; OR, FAREWELL TO HIS HARP. O Harp that cheer'd my trembling limbs, O'er many a pathless, rugged wild ; O Muse! that erst so fondly smil'd tion or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualities, too, like our German author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is no reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song, "Is there for honest poverty," I have only to re and in many other productions of this powerful author. gret that I have not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author." Farewell for aye: a salt tear dims And now we part to meet no more! Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung; Alas! our final peal hath rung Of mirth, high dames and lords among : And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend. Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone ; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone. The traveller faint will list'ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede. But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie. Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey. She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale, Rise sweetly in thy midnight song, Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong, Now, low and dying, weep along. Oh! she will hear thee oft bewail The fate of lovers true, and tell, Maids, who have lov'd but all too well. The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire : For, lo! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities. O Harp! be still a little while, Now, take with thee his last faint smile, FINIS. All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream, Joanna Baillie, 157 Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed note grave, Blythely I hae screwed my pipes, W. M'Laren, 332 135 By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees, 300 Can a crown give content, note 218 Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot, . Fair dream of my slumber, sad thoughts of my waking, Farewell! if ever fondest prayer, Byron, 142 Farewell, oh sweet hope! I have wept thee in sadness, note From his booth on the hill, the sad shepherd retires, . Robt. Glassford, 175 note How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine, 280 How green the fields, the flowers how fair, note Patie Birnie, 289 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom, I have known what it was to be happy and gay, Sir W. Raleigh, 415 |