The Lady soon had heard enough :

She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse, in language vastly gruff,
About his skill at Tennis;

While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away.-
There is not a lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,

Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet's sweetest lay.

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill,

As she set the milk and fruit: "Out on thine unrewarded skill, And on thy vagrant lute;

Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!"

Peace, peace!-the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the minstrel's song;

But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the minstrel long;

And keep his spirit innocent,

And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought

Of the moral the minstrel drew;

But the dream of a deed of kindness wroughtBrings it not peace to you?

And doth not a lesson of virtue taught

Teach him that teaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh

For the minstrel or his hymn ;

But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky, Or lip the goblet's brim,

What a star in the midst of memory

Her smile will be to him!

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTH

WELL BRIGG.

THE men of sin prevail !

Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn:
Judah is scattered as the chaff is borne

Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where

The good and true, the terrible and fleet?

They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie,

Upon the bloody pillow of their rest:

Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest

Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice ;

We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of Hosts

We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;

For we are wandering o'er our native land,

As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand

Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow.

Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,—oh, not our years

Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed;
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;

The maiden's silent tears;

The babe's bread torn away;

The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof;

The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof;
Judge not for these to-day!

Is not thine own dread rod

Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,

Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned? Avenge thyself, O God!

Break Pharoah's iron crown;

Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;

Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things; And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in thine own good time!

We will abide: we have not turned from thee;
Though in a world of grief our portion be,

Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!

Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go, That we may worship where the torrents flow, And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves

We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there
Safe temples' quiet graves!