"How oft beneath

Its martial influence have Scotia's sons,
Through every age, with dauntless valour fought
On every hostile ground! While o'er their breast,
Companion to the silver star, blest type
Of fame unsullied and superior deed,
Distinguished ornament! their native plant
Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row
Of gems emblaz'd, and flame of radiant gold
A sacred mark, their glory and their pride."

There is another fragmentary poem by Hamilton, an extract from which appears among our selections. It is called "The Maid of Gallowshiels," and is an epic of the heroiccomic kind, intended to celebrate a contest between a piper and a fiddler for the fair maid of Gallowshiels. The only poem which he

wrote in his native dialect is "The Braes of Yarrow," which has been almost universally acknowledged to be one of the finest ballads ever written. Wordsworth was signally impressed with it, as appears from his trio of beautiful poems of Yarrow Unvisited," "Yarrow Visited," and "Yarrow Revisited." Mr. Hamilton of Bangour, who made the first translation from Homer in blank verse, is sometimes mistaken for and identified with another poet of the same name — - William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, in Lanarkshire, who was a friend and correspondent of Allan Ramsay, and the author of a modern version of Harry the Minstrel's poem on Sir William Wallace.

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude? What's yonder floats? Odule and sorrow! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;
And weep around in waeful wise,

His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow; The fatal spear that pierced his breast.

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld, a stronger arm

Thou met st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow Sweet smells the birk, green grows, grec grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,

Among the many admirers of this pathetic po may be mentioned the name of Wordsworth, who ca it the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, and in his o immortal lines makes frequent allusions to it. Th is a much older composition with the same title, wh appears to have been the prototype of all the ball in celebration of the tragedy of the Yarrow. - Ed.

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows
Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love, In flowery bands thou him didst fetter: Though he was fair and well beloved again Than me he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow."

"How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover; For there was basely slain my love,

My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing;
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenned
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow; But ere the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning,
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning.
What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, t
then woo

My happy sisters may be, may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffin,

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

me?

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me;

My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover; Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband lover.

But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale thongh thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts,—
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale, indeed, O lovely, lovely youth, Forgive, forgive, so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts,

No youth shall ever lie there after."

"Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow:

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow."

TO THE COUNTESS OF EGLINTON.1
Accept, O Eglinton! the rural lays
That, bound to thee, thy poet humbly pays.
The Muse, that oft has raised her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on Scotia's blissful plains;
That oft has sung, her listening youth to move,
The charms of beauty, and the force of love;
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted through the verdant meads to stray.
O! come, invoked! and, pleased, with her repair
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air;
In the cool evening, negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and as thou hear'st approve,
The Gentle Shepherd's tender tale of love.

Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires
Inflame the breast that real love inspires!
The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears,
All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:
Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise!
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes!
When first the fair one, piteous of his fate,
Cured of her scorn, and vanquished of her hate,

1 This poem, so landatory of the celebrated Ayrshire beanty, was appended to "The Gentle Shepherd."-ED.

With willing mind, is bounteous to relent,
And blushing beauteous, smiles the kind consent!
Love's passion here, in each extreme, is shown,
In Charlotte's smile, or in Maria's frown.

With words like these, that failed not to engage, Love courted Beauty in a golden age; Pure and untaught, such Nature first inspired, Ere yet the fair affected phrase desired. His secret thoughts were undisguised with art, His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart: He speaks his love so artless and sincere, As thy Eliza might be pleased to hear.

Heaven only to the rural state bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from envy and from care, Nor raised by hope, nor yet depressed by fear; Nor want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret guilt its steadfast peace destroys, No wild ambition interrupts its joys.

Blest still to spend the hours that Heaven has lent, In humble goodness, and in calm content: Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.

But now the rural state these joys has lost;
Even swains no more that innocence can boast:
Love speaks no more what beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practised to deceive.
Now Happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwelling where she fixed her scat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,

To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came, a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Bribed from their innocence uncautious hearts.
Then grudging hate and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed.
Then dowerless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stained the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blushed with strangers'
blood:

The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful household filled with dire alarms;
The ravished virgin mourns her slighted charms:
The voice of impious mirth is heard around,
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned:
Unpunished violence lords it o'er the plains,
And happiness forsakes the guilty swains.

Oh! Happiness, from human search retired, Where art thou to be found, by all desired? Nun, sober and devout, why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head?

Virgin! of aspect mild, ah! why, unkind,
Fly'st thou, displeased, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where, with thy sire Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or, say, dost thou a duteous handmaid wait
Familiar at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet, when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or, with the industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an evening walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasured gold?
Seeks knowledge, not in vain, thy much-loved

power,

Still musing silent at the morning hour? May we thy presence hope in war's alarms, In Stair's wisdom, or in Erskine's charms?

In vain our flattering hopes our steps beguile, The flying good eludes the searcher's toil: In vain we seek the city or the cell, Alone with Virtue knows the power to dwell: Nor need mankind despair these joys to know, The gift themselves may on themselves bestow: | Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast, But many passions must the blessing cost; Infernal malice, inly pining hate, And envy, grieving at another's state; Revenge no more must in our hearts remain Or burning lust or avarice of gain.

When these are in the human bosom nursed, Can peace reside in dwellings so accursed! Unlike, O Eglinton! thy happy breast, Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest; | From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined,

Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind;

Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's name,

How swift to praise! how guiltless to defame! Bold in thy presence Bashfulness appears,

| And backward Merit loses all its fears. Supremely blessed by Heaven, Heaven's richest grace

Confessed is thine an early blooming race;
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart),
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image formed, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance, to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise
The lovely Eglintons of other days.

Meanwhile, peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native poet's strains:

In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears,
The garb our Muses wore in former years.
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling Goodness looked in days of old;
Nor blush to read, where Beauty's praise is shown,
Or virtuous Love, the likeness of thy own:
While 'midst the various gifts that gracious

Heaven

To thee, in whom it is well-pleased, has given, Let this, O Eglinton, delight thee most,— T'enjoy that innocence the world has lost.

THE MAID OF GALLOWSHIELS.

(EXTRACT.)

Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held, Elate, the piper wide surveys the field." O'er all he throws his quick discerning eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long fam'd For works of skill, the perfect wonder fram'd; His shining steel first lopp'd, with dexterous toil, From a tall spreading elm the branchy spoil. The clouded wood he next divides in twain, And smoothes them equal to an oval plane. Six leather folds in still connected rows To either plank conformed, the sides compose; The wimble perforates the base with care, A destin'd passage opening to the air; But once inclosed within the narrow space, The opposing valve forbids the backward race. Fast to the swelling bag, two reeds combin'd, Receive the blasts of the melodious wind. Round from the twining loom, with skill divine Embost, the joints in silver circles shine; In secret prison pent, the accents lie, Until his arm the lab'ring artist ply: Then duteous they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a sep'rate road. These upward through the narrow channel glide In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide; Those thro' the narrow part, their journey tend Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend. O'er the small pipe at equal distance, lie Eight shining holes o'er which his fingers fly. From side to side the aerial spirit bounds: The flying fingers form the passing sounds, That, issuing gently thro' the polish'd door, Mix with the common air, and charm no more. This gift long since old Glenderule consign'd, The lasting witness of his friendly mind, To the fam'd author of the piper's line. Each empty space shone rich in fair design: Himself appears high in the sculptur'd wo.d, As bold in the Harlean field he stood. Serene, amidst the dangers of the day, Full in the van you might behold him play;

There in the humbler mood of peace he stands,
Before him pleas'd are seen the dancing bands,
In mazy roads the flying ring they blend,
So lively fram'd they seem from earth t' ascend.
Four gilded straps the artist's arm surround,
Two knit by clasps, and two by buckles bound.
His artful elbow now the youth essays,
A tuneful squeeze to wake the sleeping lays.
With lab'ring bellows thus the smith inspires,
To frame the polish'd lock, the forge's fires;
Conceal'd in ashes lie the flames below;
Till the resounding lungs of bellows blow;
Then mounting high, o'er the illumin'd room
Spreads the brown light, and gilds the dusky
gloom;

The bursting sounds in narrow prison pent,
Rouse, in their cells, loud rumbling for a

vent.

Loud tempests now the deafen'd ear assail;
Now gently sweet is breath'd a sober gale:
As when the hawk his mountain nest forsakes,
Fierce for his prey his rustling wings he shakes;
The air impell'd by th' unharmonious shock,
Sounds clattering and abrupt through all the
rock.

But as she flies, she shapes to smoother pace
Her winnowing vans, and swims the aerial space.

WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,

That beauteous heav'n, ere while serene? Whence do these storms and tempests blow, What may this gust of passion mean? And must then mankind lose that light Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, And lie obscure in endless night,

For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,

Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands, That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, Thy beauty can make large amends. Or if I durst profanely try

Thy beauty's powerful charms t' upbraid, Thy virtue well might give the lie, Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

For Venus, every heart t' ensnare,

With all her charms has deck'd thy face, And Pallas, with unusual care,

Bids wisdom heighten every grace. Who can the double pain endure? Or who must not resign the field To thee, celestial maid, secure With Cupid's bow and Pallas' shield?