POETRY. 1033 
So may each cheerless mist that seems 
Awhile to cloud our prospects fair, 
Dispell’d by Hope’s enlivening beams, 
Our brightening ether fly, aud melt away in air. 
Awhile though Fortune adverse frown— 
By timid friends their cause betray’d, 
With bosom firm and undismay’d, 
On force depending all their own, 
A living rampire round their parent Lord, 
The British warriors grasp th’ avenging sword ; 
While youths of royal hope demand the fight, 
To assert a Monarch and a Father’s right. 
United in one patriot band, 
From Albion’s, Erin’s, Caledonia’s land, 
Elate in arms indignant shine 
The kindred heroes of the Briton line, 
To whelm invasion ’neath our circling flood, 
Or stain our verdant fields with Gallia’s hostile bleed. 
THE LAST MINSTREL. 
(From the Lay of the Last Minstrel). 
By Wauter Scorr, Esq. 
HE way was long, the wind was cold, 
The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 
Seemed to have knowna better day ; 
The harp his sole remaining joy 
Was carried by an orphan boy ; 
The last of all the Bards was he, 
Who sung of Border chivalry. 
For well-a-day ! their date was fled, 
His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 
And he neglected and oppressed, 
Wished to be with them, and at rest. 
No more, on prancing palfrey borne, 
He carolled, light as lark at morn ; 
No longer courted and caressed, 
High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
He poured, to lord and lady gay, 
The unpremeditated lay ; 
Old times were changed, old manners gone, 
A stranger filled the Stuarts’ throne ; 44 
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