O'er many a warrior, many a maiden's grave Rocks hang unmarking them, and rivers

wave;

The land that boasted of her steel-clad knights
Lauds other heroes, tells of other fights;
Silence now reigns where revels ruled before,
And Arthur's court is proud and gay no more!
None listen now for Merlin in each brake,
Nor spare the raven for King Arthur's sake :
But where sweet sounds yet float along the
dale,

The wanderer stops, and greets the nightingale,

And views, indifferent, from the plain below, The raven's shadowy wings glance o'er Plinlimmon's snow.

FYTTE SECOND.

Chiefs of Napoleon's host, your day has sooner past,

Your sway was far too fierce; too bright your fame to last;

A magic ring your elfin Emperor drew;

It spanned the world, and those invoked were you!

Brilliant, and bright, and beautiful were ye,
As the wide waters of a sun-lit sea;
Gorgeous and splendid as the rocky clouds
With which the sun his parting lustre shrouds,
And as he plunges amid wave and light,
So sank Napoleon from his men of might;
Another swell of time, and all is o'er,

No dazzle on the sea, no shadow on the shore !
Fainter and fainter grows the voice of fame,
And Echo gasps to catch another name!
Over earth's brightest things oblivion's pall
In sure progression equalizes all;

She dims the mirror; she removes the token; She cures the breaking heart; by her the wand is broken:

What Time himself would spare, that spares

she not,

The associations of a hallowed spot.

Ay! men shall stand by Lodi's running water, Nor deem its waves yet tinged with the red hue of slaughter.

Arcoli's bridge, Marengo's heaving plain,
Shall wake no mem'ry of the past again.

When scorching winds shall raise up Egypt's

sands,

Amid her ruins as the traveller stands,

From the hot poisonous blasts he'll shield his

eyes,

Nor deem whose ashes with each whirlwind

rise :

Armies shall trample Russia's snows once

more,

With hearts unthrilling to the march of yore. On Bernard's heights the eagle they shall view,

Chiefs of Napoleon's host, without one thought of you!

THE

SCOTTISH SACRAMENTAL SABBATH :

FRAGMENT OF AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

BY THE LATE MR. HISLOP.*

How dear that early dream! I still behold The ancient kirk, the plane-trees o'er it spread;

And seated 'mong the graves, the young, the old,

The same as in the days for ever fled :

To deck my dream, the grave gives up its dead,

The pale precentor sings as then he sung;
The long-lost pastor with the hoary head

* Poor James Hislop was a schoolmaster in a king's ship: I never saw him without thinking on Gray's lines:

"A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth."

He died of consumption in his 24th year.

L

Pours forth his pious counsels to the

young, And dear ones from the dust to life are

sprung.

Lost friends return from realms beyond the

main,

And childhood's cherish'd comrades all are there :

The blanks in friendly circles fill'd again,

No seats seem empty round the house of

prayer.

The sound of psalms hath vanish'd in the air, Borne up to Heaven upon the mountain

breeze;

The patriarchal priest with silvery hair,

In tent erected 'neath the fresh green trees, Spreads forth the Book of God with holy pride, and sees

The silent eyes of thousands on him fixed.— The kirk-yard scarce contains the mingling

mass

Of kindred congregations round him mix'd, Close seated on the grave-stones and the

grass.

Some climb the garden-wall: a wealthier class