5

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
10 Revenge, or death, the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :
15 0, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 20 Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career: — Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,

And freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air25 On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
30 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook-red meteors flash'd along the sky,
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

35 Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God;

That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast,
5 Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
10 Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
O! once again to Freedom's cause return.
The patriot Tell the Bruce of Bannockburn!

15

Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name!
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire

The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!*
Rapt in historic ardor, who adore

20 Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore,
Where valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song;
Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms!
25 See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell,
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell!
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore,
Hath Valor left the world- to live no more?

No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,
30 And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye?
Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls,
Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls?
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm,
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm?

*"The Theban Lyre." The poetry of Pindar, a celebrated lyric poet, bor in Thebes,

5

Yes, in that generous cause, forever strong,
The patriot's virtue and the poet's song,

Still, as the tide of ages rolls away,

Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay.

Yes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust,
That slumber yet in uncreated dust,

Ordain'd to fire the adoring sons of earth,
With every charm of wisdom and of worth;
Ordain'd to light with intellectual day,
10 The mazy wheels of nature as they play,
Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow,
And rival all but Shakspeare's name below.

XVIII. — THE LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LOCKHART.

[The Life of Scott, by his son-in-law, JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, is one of the most delightful books in the language; in all parts full of interest, which becomes of a melancholy cast towards the close. Lockhart was a man of brilliant literary powers. He wrote "Valerius," "Matthew Wald," " Adam Blair," and "Reginald Dalton," all novels; "Peter's Letters," a series of sketches of Scotch society and of eminent men in Scotland; and a volume of translations from the Spanish ballads. He was also a frequent contributor to the earlier numbers of "Blackwood's Magazine." He was born in Glasgow in 1792, and died at Abbotsford, in 1854. He had been for many years editor of the "Quarterly Review."

In consequence of Sir Walter Scott's declining health, he had passed the winter of 1831-2 in Italy; but with very little benefit. In June, 1832, while on his way home, he had an attack of apoplectic paralysis, from which he never rallied. On the 9th of July, he reached Edinburgh, in a state of almost entire insensibility. This extract begins with his removal to his own house at Abbotsford, about forty miles south-east of Edinburgh, on the Tweed. The Gala flows into the Tweed near by.]

Ar a very early hour on the morning of Wednesday, the 11th, we again placed him in his carriage, and he lay in the same torpid state during the first two stages on the road to Tweedside. But as we ascended the vale of the 5 Gala, he began to gaze about him, and by degrees it was

obvious that he was recognizing the features of that

familiar landscape. Presently he murmured a name or two-"Gala Water, surely-Buckholm-Torwoodlee."* As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, and the outlines of the Eildons burst on him, he became greatly excited; and 5 when, turning himself on the couch, his eye caught at length his own towers, at the distance of a mile, he sprang up with a cry of delight.

The river being in a flood, we had to go round a few miles by Melrose bridge; and during the time this occu10 pied, his woods and house being within prospect, it required occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and mine, in addition to Nicholson's,† to keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge, the road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he relapsed into his stupor; 15 but on gaining the bank immediately above it, his excitement became ungovernable.

Mr. Laidlaw ‡ was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in lifting him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared. He sat bewildered for a few moments, 20 and then resting his eye on Laidlaw, said, “Ha, Willie Laidlaw ! O man, how often have I thought of you!" By this time his dogs had assembled about his chair; they began to fawn upon him, and lick his hands, and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them, until sleep op25 pressed him.

Dr. Watson, having consulted on all things with Mr. Clarkson and his father, resigned the patient to them, and returned to London. hope, but that of soothing 30 longer to be thought of.

None of them could have any irritation. Recovery was no And yet something like a ray of

hope did break in upon us, next morning. Sir Walter

* Torwoodlee is a country seat near Abbotsford.

tower.

† Nicholson was Sir Walter Scott's servant.

Buckholm is an old

Mr. Laidlaw, a worthy and intelligent man, to whom Scott was much attached, was the manager of his estate.

§ Mr. Clarkson was a surgeon.

awoke perfectly conscious where he was, and expressed an ardent wish to be carried out into his garden. We procured a Bath chair from Huntly Burn, and Laidlaw and I wheeled him out before his door, and up and down for 5 some time on the turf, and among the rose-beds, then in full bloom. The grandchildren admired the new vehicle, and would be helping in their way to push it about. He sat in silence, smiling placidly on them, and the dogs, their companions, and now and then admiring the house, 10 the screen of the garden, and the flowers and trees. Byand-by he conversed a little, very composedly, with us; said he was happy to be at home; that he felt better than he had ever done since he left it, and would perhaps disappoint the doctors, after all.

15

He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. "I have seen much," he kept saying, "but nothing like my ain house; give me one turn more." He was gentle as an infant, and allowed 20 himself to be put to bed again the moment we told him that we thought he had had enough for one day.

Next morning he was still better. After again enjoying the Bath chair for perhaps a couple of hours, he desired to be drawn into the library, and placed by the cen25 tral window, that he might look down upon the Tweed.

Here he expressed a wish that I should read to him; and when I asked from what book, he said, “Need you ask? There is but one." I chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel; he listened with mild devotion, and said, 30 when I had done, "Well, this is a great comfort; I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself again." In this placid frame he was again put to bed, and had many hours of soft slumber.

On Monday he remained in bed, and seemed extremely

* Huntly Burn is a cottage on the estate of Abbotsford, then occupied by Sir Adam Ferguson, a friend of Scott's.