The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And then, he said, he would full fain He had played it to King Charles the Good, And much he wished, yet feared, to try Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And oft he shook his hoary head; In varying cadence, soft or strong, The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot; Cold diffidence, and age's frost, Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim: Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Still lay my head by Teviot stone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. Sir W. Scott. Upon my THE ORPHAN. father's new closed grave, Deep lay the winter's snow; Green, now, the grass waves o'er his head, And tall the tomb-weeds grow. Along life's road no parent's hand No mother's arm in sickness soothed, But other hearts, Lord! thou hast warmed With tenderness benign; And in the stranger's eye. I mark The tear of pity shine. The stranger's hand by thee is moved To be the orphan's stay; And better far, the stranger's voice Thou putt'st a new song in our mouth, But hearts, in praise employ ! To Him who little children took, And blessing them with looks of love, Their rising fears dispelled; To Him, while flowers bloom on the bank, While larks with morning hymns ascend, Or birds chant on the tree; To Him let every creature join Grahame. VERSES BY THE LATE PRINCESS AMELIA, DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III. Unthinking, idle, wild, and young, I laughed, and talked, and danced, and sung, Dreamt not of sorrow, care, or pain; a That all the world was made for me. But when the days of trial came, When sickness shook this trembling frame, |