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On tottering feet she grop'd her way,

And sought her lover's home.

• A mother thou hast made of me,

Before thou mad'st a wife:
For this, upon my tender breast,

These livid stripes are rife :

• Behold;' and then with bitter sobs, She sank


the floor • Make good the evil thou has wrought;

My injur'd name restore.'

* Poor soul,- I'll have thee hous’d and nurs’d;

Thy terrors I lament.
Stay here; we'll have some further talk-

The old one shall repent

I have no time to rest and wait ;

That saves not my good name,If thou with honest soul hast sworn,

O leave me not to shame;

. But at the holy altar be

Our union sanctified ;
Before the people and the priest

Receive me for thy bride.'

Unequal matches must not blot

The honours of my line ;
Art thou of wealth or rank for me,

To harbour thee as mine?

"What's fit and fair I'll do for thee;

Shalt yet retain my love-
Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then

Our former transports prove."

• Thy wicked soul, hard-hearted man,

May pangs in hell await! Sure, if not suited for thy bride,

I was not for thy mate.

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Go, seek a spouse of nobler blood,

Nor God's just judgments dread-
So shall, ere long, some base-born wretch

Defile thy marriage-bed.

• Then, traitor, feel how wretched they

In hopeless shame immerst;
Then smite thy forehead on the wall,

While horrid curses burst.

• Roll thy dry eyes in wild despair

Unsooth'd thy grinning wo; Through thy pale temples fire the ball,

And sink to fiends below.'

Collected, then, she started up,

And, through the hissing sleet, Through thorn and briar, through flood and mire,

She fled with bleeding feet.

Where now,' she cried, 'my gracious God!

What refuge have I left ?'
And reach'd the garden of her home,

Of hope in man bereft.

On hand and foot she feebly crawl'd

Beneath the bower unblest;
Where withering leaves, and gathering snow,

Prepar'd her only rest.

There rending pains and darting throes

Assail'd her shuddering frame;

And from her womb a lovely boy,

With wail and weeping came.

Forth from her hair a silver pin

With hasty hand she drew,
And prest against its tender heart,

And the sweet babe she slew.

Erst when the act of blood was done,

Her soul its guilt abhorr'd : My Jesus! what has been


deed? Have mercy on me, Lord !

With bloody nails, beside the pond,

Its shallow grave she tore; There rest in God, there shame and want Thou can'st not suffer more;

Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child,

Thy wound shall bleed afresh, When ravens from the gallows tear

Thy mother's mould'ring flesh.'

Hard by the bower her gibbet stands,

Her skull is still to show ;
It seems to eye the barren grave,

Three spans in length below.

That is the

spot where grows no grass ; Where falls no rain nor dew, Whence steals along the pond of toads

A hovering fire so blue.

And nightly when the ravens come,

Her ghost is seen to glide;
Pursues and tries to quench the flame,

And pines the pool beside.



“ We were talking the other evening of reviewers ; since that time I have met with a clever article in Blackwood's Magazine relative to the two most distinguished critics of the last century, Bishop Warburton and Dr Johnson. Boswell has immortalized the latter in such a manner, has so softened his dogmatism and rudeness by the friendly admiration with which, if I may use the expression, he has enambered him, that it is impossible to read his work without being persuaded that the Doctor was a very learned, and something too of a wise as well as a good man. As for the Bishop, I suspect it would puzzle you to find a person now alive who, from his own knowledge, can tell you either of the powers or the productions by which he arrogated, while alive, so much pre-eminence to himself. Without the work of Boswell, the fame of the Doctor would rest almost entirely on his own Dictionary, which, though a compilation of considerable industry and acumen, cannot be regarded as any very extraordinary achievement. A few of the Lives of the Poets are highly respectable; Rasselas is a sonorous enough thing of its kind; and some of the papers in the Rambler would obtain insertion in the magazines of the present day. His Tour to the

Hebrides might also be spoken of as a very creditable work."

“ My love,” exclaimed the Bachelor, “ what blasphemy is that you are uttering! I shudder with the idea of what might be our fortune, were it possible for “ the colossus of learning to hear you speaking in such a strain."

And knock that fellow and that woman down,'

as Peter Pindar makes him say, would, I doubt not, be the gentlest thing we should hear from him,” replied Egeria; “but, for all that, we ought not to be deterred from speaking the truth, and what I have said is the plain fact. Nevertheless, such is the impression of the Doctor's character, left by the perusal, many years ago, of Boswell's unequalled and matchless piece of biography, that I have a strong affection for his surly merits; for in that work I count him, as it were, a living friend, whom I can occasionally consult. But Warburton,- peace to his manes !-I am really malicious enough to wish he were now alive, and subject to the irreverent spirit of modern criticism. How delightful to see such a plethory of arrogance subjected to the bleeding and blistering of the reviews! With all his overweening presumption, however, it would seem that he did possess talent as well as learning; and the ingenious author of the dissertation before me has estimated his abilities, as compared with those of Johnson, with a degree of tact and discrimination that will, perhaps, do as much for his fame as any thing that he himself has or could have written. Of such bugbears it is pleasant to speak

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