No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone:

Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And thou hast left them to their own.
But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of THEE, a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!
Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But THOU hast said, The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

Ivanhoe.

ELLEN-THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak
That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay.

With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,

In listening mood she seem'd to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace

Of finer form, or lovelier face!

What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown-
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her pace-

A foot more light, a step more true,

Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread:

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue-

Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!

A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;-
O need I tell that passion's name!

One hour with Thee! When sun is set,
Oh, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labors of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away;

The increasing wants, and lessening gains,
The master's pride, who scorns my pains?
One hour with Thee!

Woodstock.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.1

Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me

At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.

Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and woe:

Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking,
The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow,
Or pale disappointment to darken my way,

What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day!

But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not assuage;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain;

As vain thine enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers-
Farewell, then-Enchantress ;-I meet thee no more.

THE NECESSITY AND DIGNITY OF LABOUR.

I rely upon it that you are now working hard in the classical mine, getting out the rubbish as fast as you can, and preparing yourself to collect the oré. I cannot too much impress upon your mind that labour is the condition which God has imposed on us in every station of life-there is nothing worth having that can be had without it, from the bread which the peasant wins with the sweat of his brow, to the sports by which the rich man must get rid of his ennui. The only difference betwixt them is, that the poor man

Written, during illness, for Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, and first published in

1822.

labors to get a dinner to his appetite, the rich man to get an appetite to his dinner. As for knowledge, it can no more be planted in the human mind without labor, than a field of wheat can be produced without the previous use of the plough. There is indeed this great difference, that chance or circumstances may so cause it that another shall reap what the farmer sows; but no man can be deprived, whether by accident or misfortune, of the fruits of his own studies; and the liberal and extended acquisitions of knowledge which he makes are all for his own use. Labour, my dear boy, therefore, and improve the time. In youth our steps are light, and our minds are ductile, and knowledge is easily laid up. But if we neglect our spring, our summer will be useless and contemptible, our harvest will be chaff, and the winter of our old age unrespected and desolate.

EDUCATION OF THE HEART.

From a Letter to his Son.

I fear you have some very young ideas in your head. Are you not too apt to measure things by some reference to literature-to disbelieve that anybody can be worth much care who has no knowledge of that sort of thing, or taste for it! God help us! what a poor world this would be if that were the true doctrine! I have read books enough, and observed and conversed with enough of eminent and splendidly cultivated minds, too, in my time; but I assure you, I have heard higher sentiments from the lips of the poor, uneducated men and women, when exerting the spirit of severe yet gentle heroism under difficulties and afflictions, or speaking their simple thoughts as to circumstances in the lot of friends and neighbors, than I ever yet met with out of the pages of the Bible. We shall never learn to feel and respect our real calling and destiny, unless we have taught ourselves to consider every thing as moonshine compared with the education of the heart.

From his Life.

A TRUE MAN.

The man whom I call deserving the name, is one whose thoughts and exertions are for others rather than himself,-whose high purpose is adopted on just principles, and never abandoned while heaven or earth affords means of accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an indirect advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil path to secure a really good purpose. Such a man were one for whom a woman's heart should beat constant while he breathes, and break when he dies.1

1 A much fuller, nobler definition of a "True Man," is the following by the great Christian philosopher, Sir Robert Boyle:

"In my apprehension, the man that has a great mind is he that uses his utmost moral

A TRUE WOMAN.

Her very soul is in home, and in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the centre. Her husband will be to her what her father is now-the object of all her care, solicitude, and affection. She will see nothing, and connect herself with nothing, but by or through him. If he be a man of sense and virtue, she will sympathize in his sorrows, divert his fatigues, and share his pleasures. If she become the portion of a churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she will not long survive his unkindness.

FORTITUDE AND PERSEVERANCE.

The great art of life, so far as I have been able to observe, consists in fortitude and perseverance. I have rarely seen, that a man who conscientiously devoted himself to the studies and duties of any profession, and did not omit to take fair and honorable opportunities of offering himself to notice when such presented themselves, has not at length got forward. The mischance of those who fall behind, though flung upon fortune, more frequently arises from want of skill and perseverance. Life, my young friend, is like a game at cards: our hands are alternately good or bad, and the whole seems, at first glance, to depend on mere chance. But it is not so, for in the long run the skill of the player predominates over the casualties of the game. Therefore, do not be discouraged with the prospect before you, but ply your studies hard, and qualify yourself to receive fortune when she comes your way.

From a Letter in his Life.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S FIRST INTERVIEW WITH QUEEN

ELIZABETH.

They were soon launched on the princely bosom of the broad Thames, upon which the sun now shone forth in all its splendor. "There are two things scarce matched in the universe," said Walter to Blount,-"the sun in heaven, and the Thames on the earth." "The one will light us to Greenwich well enough," said Blount, "and the other would take us there a little faster if it were ebb tide."

"And this is all thou think'st-all thou carest-all thou deem'st the use of the king of elements and the king of rivers, to guide three such poor caitiffs as thyself, and me, and Tracy upon an idle journey of courtly ceremony!"

diligence to find out what are the best things he can do, and then, without being deterred by dangers or discouraged by difficulties, does resolutely and steadily pursue them, so far as his abilities will serve; and this out of an internal principle of love to God and man, and with a sincere aim to glorify the one and benefit the other."