There's not a moss-grown fragment there,

But has its tale for me;

No wonder that I cannot bear

This havoc rude to see.

'Twas there my happy childhood passed,

And my lost brother played.

Alas! to think that ruin's blast

These walls in dust hath laid.

A statelier pile you soon may raise,
And say it is my home;

But there the memories of old days

To me can never come.

So much is lost 'mid change and toil,
I would not share the crime

Of adding to the hoarded spoil
Of that old miser, Time.

I would not fell yon hoary tree,
Nor raze yon ivied wall;

For with them both would fall for me

What Time can ne'er recall.

You talk of nought, save gold and power:
The heart hath other gains,
Gathered from many a by-gone hour,
From pleasures, griefs, and pains.

I would not give the storied Past
For what may gild the morrow;
And yet, it speaks of many a blast,
Of many a treasured sorrow.

I hoped the home that hailed my birth
Life's setting sun might see;

No fonder hope was mine for earth

Alas! it may not be.

Hark! how the ponderous hammer rings!

Long-knitted rafters start

The thoughtless serf, unconscious, sings

MACGREGOR'S PARTING.

"Raise me from my bed," said the invalid, on learning that a person, with whom he was at enmity, proposed to visit him-"throw my plaid around me, and bring me my claymore, dirk, and pistols: it shall never be said that a foeman saw Rob Roy Macgregor defenceless and unarmed." His foeman, conjectured to be one of the MacLarens, entered and paid his compliments. Rob Roy maintained a cold, haughty civility during the short conference, and so soon as he had left the house, " Now," he said, "all is over -let the piper play, Ha til mi tulidh (we return no more);" and he is said to have expired before the dirge was finished.

'Like Robin Hood of England, he was a kind and gentle robber, and, while he took from the rich, was liberal in relieving the poor.'-Scott's Introduction to Rob Roy.

KINSMEN! raise me from my pillow,
And array me in my best ;-

Thus would I salute a clansman

E'er I take the dreamless rest.

Ne'er before the hostile chieftain
In my vigour did I crouch;
And in age I would not meet him,

Tamely stretched upon my couch.

Play the strain that fired my spirit,

When I charged the Lowland foe, Rushing, like the mountain-torrent On the trembling vale below.

Ah! that Pibroch brings before me
Heather-bloom and Highland glen,

When the ringing rocks resounded
To the clang of martial men.

Feeble now the arm that scattered Bands of foemen keen and brave, And mine eye grows dim with shadows Stealing, mist-like, from the grave.

I have trod a troubled journey,

Soon in death's drear vale to close;

Soon Macgregor's form must vanish From his friends and from his foes.

Yet I go not void of comfort;

For, although this hand is red,

Blood of poor man nor of peaceful,
Never, never hath it shed.

Like the oak tree, 'mid the tempest,
Battle with the proud I've made;
But the feeble and the friendless

Found a shelter in my shade.

King of Terrors! to thy mandate
With no craven fear I bow-

Wrong-not right-have I resisted,

And to bend becomes me now.

Sad my wants-but want of mercy
Paineth not this parting breath;

Humbly, then, I hope for pardon
Past yon cloudy gulf of death.

Rushing stream and breezy mountain! Wavy loch and bushy dell!

Ebbs my being's feeble fountain—

Scenes of life! a long farewell!

H