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CUMNOR HALL.

[William Julius Mickle, born at Langholm, Dumfriesshire, 1734; died at Wheatly, Oxfordshire, 25th October, 1788. He translated the Lusiad of Camoens, and contributed a number of poems to Evans' Ancient Ballads and other publications. He is best known as ! the author of the following ballad, which suggested the plot of the novel Kenilworth, Sir Walter Scott, referring to Mickle, remarked that he was "a poet who, though by no means deficient in the higher branches of his art, was eminent for the powers of verbal melody above most who have practised this department of poetry."]

The dews of night did falle,

The moone (sweet regente of the sky) Silvered the walls of Cumnor Halle,

And many an oake that grew therebye.

Now noughte was heard beneathe the skies, (The soundes of busye life were stille), Save an unhappie ladie's sighes

That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester," shee cried, "is thys thy love That thou so oft has sworn to mee, To leave mee in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privitie?

No more thou com'st with lover's speede,
Thy once-beloved bryde to see;

But bee she alive, or bee she deade,
I feare (sterne earle)'s the same to thee.

Not such the usage I received,

When happye in my father's halle; No faithless husbande then me grieved; No chilling fears did me appalle.

I rose up with the cheerful morne,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gaye; And, like the bird that hauntes the thorne, So merrillie sung the live-long daye.

Say that my beautye is but smalle,
Among court-ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that halle,
Where (scornful earle) it well was prizede.

And when you first to mee made suite,

How fayre I was, you oft woulde saye! And, proud of conquest-plucked the fruite, Then left the blossom to decaye.

Yes, now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale-the lily's deade-
But hee that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fledde.

For knowe, when sickening griefe doth preye,
And tender love's repay'd with scorne,
The sweetest beautye will decaye;

What flow'ret can endure the storme?

At court I'm tolde is beautye's throne,
Where everye lady's passing rare:
The eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing -not so fair.

Then, earle, why didst thou leave those bedds,
Where roses and where lilys vie,

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken-when those gaudes are bye?

'Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are faire; Some countrye swayne might mee have won And thoughte my beautie passing rare.

But, Leicester (or I much am wronge), Or 'tis not beautye fires thy vowes; Rather ambition's gilded crowne

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade

(The injured surelie may repyne), Why didst thou wed a countrye maide, When some fair princesse might be thyne?

Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,

And, oh! then leave them to decaye? Why didst thou win me to thy armes,

Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye?

The village maidens of the plaine
Salute me lowly as I goe;

Envious, they marke my silken trayne,
Nor think a countesse can have woe.

The simple nymphs! they little knowe How far more happy's their estate,To smile for joye-than sigh for woe,To be contente, than to be greate.

How fare lesse bleste am I than them? Dailye to pyne and waste with care! Like the poor plante, that from its stem Divided-feels the chilling ayre!

Nor (cruel earle!) can I enjoye

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proude my peace destroye, By sullen frownes, or pratings rude.

Laste nyghte, as sad I chanced to straye,

The village deathe-belle smote my eare, They winked asyde, and seemed to saye, Countesse, prepare--thy end is neare.

And now, when happye peasantes sleepe,

Here sit I lonely and forlorne,

No one to soothe me as I weepe,

Save Phylomel on yonder thorne.

My spirits flag-my hopes decaye

Still that dread deathe-belle strikes my eare, And many a boding seems to saye,

Countesse, prepare-thy end is near."

Thus sore and sad that ladye grieved,

In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare; Full manye a heartfelte sigh shee heaved, And let falle many a bitter teare.

And ere the dawne of day appeared,

In Cuminor Hall so long and dreare, Full many a piercing screame was hearde, And many a cry of mortal feare.

The deathe-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aerial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Arounde the towers of Cumnor Halle.

The mastiffe howled at village doore,
The oaks were shattered on the greene;
Woe was the houre-for never more

That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.

And in that manor now no more

Is cheerful feaste and sprightly balle; For ever since that drearie houre

Have spirits haunted Cumuor Halle.

The village maides, with fearful glance, Avoid the antient moss-growne walle; Nor ever leade the merrye dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.

Full manye a traveller oft hath sighed, And pensive wepte the countess' falle, As wandering onward they've espied

The haunted towers of Cumnor Halle.

TIME.

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,
Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
And told our marvelling boyhood legend's store,
Of their strange venture happed by land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things that be!
How few, all weak and withered of their force,
Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless

course.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE LAIRD OF MACNAB.

The late Laird of Macnab was the last relie of the ancient, stern, feudal system-rere ultimus Gothorum. Chief of a tribe, compared with which, in his opinion, the Campbells and the Grahams were as mushrooms, the worthy laird acknowledged no superior, not even those whose heads were decorated with regal crowns. He possessed extraordinary energies of mind and body. Although his education, like that of many other persons of family in the days of his youth, had been very defective, his information was singularly extensive. He was a man of great tact and shrewdness, and, oh! what a fund of genealogy failed with him! His corporeal was as vigorous as his mental frame. I have seen him, at "drucken writers' feasts," put to the blush many a three-bottle man; and, with steady hand, and head apparently inaecessible to the fumes of Bacchus, drink to the speedy resurrection of those of his juvenile companions who were compelled to hug the carpet. And these feats were achieved at the advanced age of eighty-four, and after having spent what is called an exceedingly rough life. On these occasions, Macnab was wont to moralize on the woful degeneracy of the present race. Sitting as erect as if he had been impaled, with his back at least four inches distant from that of his chair,-to have reclined against which, even for one moment, he would have considered a scandalous disparagement of his strength, and a disgraceful compliance with modern effeminacy,--thus would the veteran chieftain speculate on the inequality of past and present mortals:-"By the L-d! I kenna what to mak o' the puir deevils now-a-days They have nae mair fusion in their wames than a withered docken. Twa or three hours spinnin' about a wheen meeserable lang-nebbed bottles, is eneuch to cowp them heels ower craig. This is ane o' the blessed effects of the Union, an' be damned till't! By my saul, it wasna keekin through a mill-stane to see whatna change the pock-puddin' Southron tykes would mak in our auld gusty Scotch diet, as sune as they got their nebs i' the ither side o' Tweed. The vera sight of a haggis is eneuch to turn their stamachs inside out; and as to hotch-poteh, and crappit-heads, 'the puir, ignorant creatures,' as our King Jamie weel said, 'are no' worthy o' having the like o' them to sain their wizened thrapples.' And our Scotch fowk are takin' after them,-deil burst them! The feck o' their dinners made up o' jeelies, tarts, and

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