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22.

The lowly grass!-O water-constant mind!!
Fast-ebbing holiness !-soon-fading grace
Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind
Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face
For ever!-How they lift their eyes to find
Old vanities. Pride wins the very place
Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now
With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow!

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23.1

And lo! with eager looks they seek the way
Of old temptation at the lowly gate;
To feast on feathers, and on vain array,

And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state
Of jewel-sprinkled locks. But where are they,
The graceless haughty ones that used to wait
With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye?-
None challenge the old homage bending by.

24.

In vain they look for the ungracious bloom
Of rich apparel where it glow'd before,
For Vanity has faded into gloom,

And lofty Pride has stiffen'd to the core,
And impious Life leaf-trembles at its doom,-
Set for a warning token evermore,
Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise
Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes.

25.

The aged priest goes on each sabbath morn,
But shakes not sorrow under his grey hair;
The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn,
Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair
And ancient lips that pucker'd up in scorn,
Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r;
And in the garden-plot, from day to day,
The lily blooms its long white life away.

26.

And where two haughty maidens used to be,
In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod,
Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,

Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;

There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see

Two sombre Peacocks.Age, with sapient nod
Marking the spot, still tarries to declare

How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.

If any man, in his unbelief, should doubt the truth and manner of this occurrence, he may in an easy way be assured thereof to his satisfaction, by going to Bedfont, a journey of some thirteen miles, where, in the churchyard, he may with his own eyes behold the two peacocks. They seem at first sight to be of yew-tree, which they greatly resemble; but on drawing nearer, he will perceive, cut therein, the date 1704-being, without doubt, the year of their transformation.

QVID.

LUKE LORANCE, THE CAMERONIAN.

I sought my home-my father's home, and stood
In mute deep sorrow on the threshold stone,
Passing my palm o'er my oft dropping eyes.
No maiden sister now, nor long-gown'd dame,
Nor merry hind, nor grave grey-headed sire,
With outheld hand and kindred smile came forth
To greet and welcome me. Woe, and alas !
The hall was roofless and the hearth was cold:-
The gladsome hearth, where rustic poets sang,
Where matrons 'mongst their menial maidens smiled,
And ancient hinds, with wise saws and strange stories,
Gave wings to winter-nights-was silent now.
A hemlock large and flowering, green and long,
Shot up
and shadow'd all the western nook,
Where oft I gazed in my old grandsire's face,
And heard him talk of civil wars and sorrows
At home felt and abroad. Domestic feud,
Friends' deadly enmity, nor famine dread,

Nor spotted plague, nor stroke of heaven's right hand,
Nor midnight fire far flashing o'er the walls

Had desolate laid my home, and driven my kin
To the pent city or the foreign shore.

For one had fallen in ripe and ready age,

One sank in seventeen's green and tender bud,
One perish'd in a far and friendless land,
One slew a false friend and his country fled,

One died a victor on a bloody field,

One, when the fight wax'd dubious, wound his pennon
About his breast, and with his bayonet stood

Defending it, and died. One sank at sea

In sight of home-his mother heard his shriek,

And running wildly to the sea-merge saw

The last of her fair-hair'd sea-boy. One was struck
With shot, while he his colours to the mast
Nail'd, and amid the bloody foam went down,
Faint-shouting with his crew of gallant mariners.
So was my name from Scotland wede away,
And thus my house sank down.

An absence of forty years in a foreign land, amid perils and sorrows, and all the varieties of evil fortune, had failed to subdue that love of home which belongs to every human heart. It was on a summer morning when my ship entered the Scottish sea, and the hills and the woody vales of my native land began to appear in succession before me as we sailed along the coast. I had seen more lovely hills and richer vallieshad wandered where we crushed at every step the clusters of ripe grapes, or trod among fragrant berries and scented herbs-but early joys and remembrances had consecrated the rugged hill and the lonesome glen, and Scotland was dearer to me in her homely garb of heath and grass VOL. VI.

than the sunniest and richest regions of the east. I went ashore, and sought the way to my native village. The houses, covered at my departure with heather or broom, now sparkled in blue slate, and the way which formerly winded through a wilderness of hazel, holly, and wild plum, was now drawn as straight as a line; while a rude fence of shapeless stone prevented the traveller from seeking the company of a little brook which still pursued unmolested its ancient freakish and fairy course. The village had been compelled by a new purchaser to dismiss its ancient name, and assume the sirname of an opulent plodder from the West Indies. This change was but partially effected; the old people, who have no ala

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crity in forming new friendships, treated the name of their new landlord with open scorn-and the young, who are more tractable in such matters, contented themselves with moderate merriment. In leases and in deeds the new name appeared, and also in a grant to the poor of the parish sedulously emblazoned in gold on the walls of the parish kirk ; but the old name still maintained its ground in tale, in song, and in conversation, and bade fair to triumph in time over the new one.

The name of the village had not undergone a greater change than the houses and the people. The house which had sheltered my name for centuries-I see it before me as I speak, with its sharp gabels, crowstepped skews, arched door-way, floor of hewn-stone, and huge hall chimney, where fifty people might find comfort in a snowy night-the house of my fathers had been cast down, and a new house with a flat roof and Venetian windows occupied its place. The name of the possessor too was changed from plain Emanuel Herries, portioner of fifty acres of land, into "John Macfen, Esq. writer," whose ready pen and shrewd spirit had assisted largely in the transfer of property from old hands to new, while every new change brought a large tribute of hill and holm, and good red gold, into the possession of this region kite. Other houses and other names had undergone similar changes-there appeared more exterior beauty about the houses, but less internal comfort-all seemed anxious to show a carved and gilded outside, but two or three experiments taught me that the hearty patriarchal hospitality of the people had undergone a momentous change since my departure. My relations-my friends-the companions of my youth, were all dead, departed, or dispersed. I enquired after some of the ancient names-a shake of the head, and "I never heard of the family before," or They are all dead and gone, or They have gone away to a distant land," were generally the answers which I obtained.

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Sick at heart, and sorrowful in spirit, I strolled to the extremity of the village, and stood looking on a tall pole which carried a board at its extremity exhibiting the change which

had taken place in the name of my native place. The board announced something else-namely, the hostility of the people to their new landlordfor, shattered by a thousand stones, it required some skill in conjecture to stumble on its meaning.

In this very scrutiny I was employed, when I observed an old woman in a white mutch and closely mauded, bent near the ground, and leaning over a staff, gazing intently upon me from the low door of a little cottage just opposite. I approached and said, "Where are the Halbertsons, the Hallidays, the Herries's, and all the old names of Nithsdale, which were once so rife in this village?" She drew her eye-brows deeply over her eyes, and after pondering on my person for some time, said, “A sad hour for Herries and for Halbertson, when the one must ask of the other what is become of their kin-I am all that remains of the house of Halbertson, and seven fair daughters, and seven bold sons, once sat at the board, and ye are all that remains of the house of Herries-a noble name and a brave, with fair castles and broad lands-but wherefore need I sigh? time, and civil dissension, and foreign war, make the lofty low and the low lofty. Names have their changes, even as the seasons have, and I see not why the Robsons and Rodans, and all other names which were once the lowest spokes in the wheel of fortune, should not turn uppermost at last. They are a civil and a kindhearted people-skilful in flocks and in herds, and cunning in the culture of corn-more by token William Robson never passes my door from market or from mill but he leaves me something to remember him by. But if ye would learn the fate of the Herries's, go look among the long ranks of grave stones in the parish kirk-yard. There they lie with their memorials above them-thou wilt find grave succeeding grave of thy kindred and mine; the feet of the Halbertsons to the heads of the Herries's--wherefore thy name should undergo such humiliation I know not, save that there is no precedence in the court of death, and his dart levels all distinctions even the more pity.→→ And that reminds me to go and read a page or two of that glorious youth Rutherford." And adjusting

a pair of silver spectacles before her dim eyes, she turned herself round to retire.

"Dame Halbertson," I said, "forty years have I remained in a far land, nor heard one word of my kindred what is become of them and their lands and their towers?"-" Become of them," said the old dame, apparently marvelling at my question"the sea has had its share-so has the destroyer's sword.-Sorrow has also craved her morsel-old age came last, and was worst served-seven years since, I stretched with these two withered hands all that I thought remained of the ancient house of Herries. His looks were stately, and his locks were long and white as the driven snow. I shall never look on such a manly form again, for the stamp of God is fast wearing out of the race of man. And of the lands did ye ask, and the old towers? Alas, that the enthusiastic and devout spirit of thy name should have lessened thy inheritance and cast down thy halls-but the house of Herries stood fearlessly for the covenant through a period of sore peril-and the glory they won above, diminished their substance below. They are gone, and none to mourn their departure but Luke Lorance and me." "Luke Lorance," I said, " and does my old school companion still live-I shall think the sun gives little light till I see him-where shall I find my old and merry friend?" Dame Halbertson laid her finger on her lip, and came close to my side:-"Forty years change human cheer, and they have sorely changed Luke Lorance; much he endured in the evil days of persecution, and with a sword in his right hand and the Bible in his left, he fought and prayed, and warred, and meditated on mountain tops and lonesome places, and now his spirit is at times touched, and he thinks the period of dool and disaster has returned, and so he takes up his abode in wild hills and deep glens, and prays, and preaches, and lifts up his voice against the pressing abominations of these godless times-till it is awful to see and fearful to hear him. He has left his ancient abode, and built himself a house in the mouth of the Cameronian linn-and there will you find him." And away I walked to seek out the residence of Luke Lorance.

It stood in a sweet and lonesome place, at the entrance of a wild and caverned linn. An old tree hung down from the upper ground, overshadowing the roof, while through, among its thick green branches, a line of thin white smoke, such as ascends from a summer fire, found its way to the wind-then visibly breathing among the boughs which waved over the linn. A brook, escaping from among woods and rocks, came streaming by, and, lingering amid a little holm, formed a pleasant pool midwaist deep, where a maiden had laid down a web of linen to bleach, and on the margin of which a brood of ducks sat dozing. The house itself was of rude construction-built more with an eye to self-denial and penetential humility, than with a desire of rational delight and comfort. The walls were of clay, hardened with a mixture of gravel; the roof was covered with a thick coating of heather, while a bundle of long broom, cut in blossom, and bound with withies, formed an effectual hallan or screen to shelter the entrance. The door stood open-doors then were seldom closed save against winter storms, and I entered, without any announcement, the residence of my ancient friend.

The house seemed deserted by its owner-and I stood for a time and looked on the rude furniture and the scanty means of human comfort which were presented. As I looked, I saw something in the form of a human being, stretched out the chimney length-groveling beside and almost among the warm ashes of the hearth fire. I went closer, and soon observed that it was one of those quiet and gentle idiots who formerly wandered about their native parish finding food and shelter-the questionable wisdom and humanity of man has since immured them in the county mad-house, and deprived the peasantry of much harmless merriment, social amusement, and some of those quaint and pithy sayings on which lunacy oftener stumbles than wisdom. He was clothed in very coarse grey cloth, without shoes or bonnet, and, raising himself on his hands, he lay and looked on me as a house dog would do, and growled out what seemed the remains of one of our old minstrel ballads.

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