the country for the purpose of collecting the ballad poetry of Scotland. As a result, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border appeared in 1802. After other work of importance, his Lay of the Last Minstrel appeared in 1805, "which instantly stamped him as one of the greatest poets of the age." The tide of his popularity had now fully set in, and as of Burns, the people murmured of him from shore to shore.

In 1808 appeared the great poem Marmion, and also his edition of Dryden. Lady of the Lake was published in 1810. In 1811, The Vision of Don Roderick; in 1813, Rokeby, and The Bridal of Triermain; 1814, The Lord of the Isles; 1815, The Field of Waterloo; and in 1817, Harold the Dauntless.

"So early as 1805, before his great poems were produced, Scott had entered on the composition of Waverly, the first of his illustrious progeny of tales." Waverly appeared in 1814, and was received with "unmingled applause." For fear that he would compromise his reputation as a poet, Scott did not prefix his name to the work. In 1815 appeared Guy Mannering; in 1816, The Antiquary, and also The Black Dwarf, and Old Mortality. "The year 1818 witnessed two other coinages from Waverly mint, Rob Roy and The Heart of Mid-Lothian." The Bride of Lammermoor, a story of sustained and overwhelming pathos, appeared in 1819.

Ivanhoe, from which we have taken our selection, appeared in 1820. For want of space, we must omit mention of Scott's other excellent works, and pass to a brief sketch of his life.

He studied law, and was admitted to the bar at the age of twenty-one. He joined the Tory party, and became one of a band of volunteers to defend his country. After his first love disappointment, he was finally married to Char

lotte Margaret Carpenter in 1797. "Miss Carpenter had some fortune and the young couple retired to a cottage at Lasswade, where they seem to have enjoyed sincere and unalloyed happiness."

The success of Scott's works gained for him a large fortune. At a princely outlay, he purchased land and fitted up a home known now by the immortal name of Abbotsford. Princes, peers and poets-men of all grades-were his constant visitors. Failure of his publishers left him heavily in debt. In his old age, Scott undertook the task of paying a debt of £120,000. "The fountain was awakened from its inmost recess, as if the spirit of affliction had troubled it in his passage," and before his death, the commercial debt was reduced to £54,000.

"In six years, Scott had nearly reached the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genius, and integrity were extinguished by delirium and death.

"About half past one, p. m.," says Mr. Lockhart, “on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day -so warm that every window was wide open-and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."

Death of Marmion.

ITH that, straight up the hill there rode

Two horsemen drench'd with gore,

And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore;

His hand still strain'd the broken brand;

His arms were smear'd with blood and sand:
Dragged from among the horses' feet,

With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!
Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said "By Saint George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion."--

O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,

A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:

1

Forgot were hatred, wrongs and fears-
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew:
For, oozing from the mountain's side,
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn?-behold her mark
A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond spark,

In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say:

"Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray
For the kind soul of Sybil Gray

Who built this cross and well."
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A monk supporting Marmion's head-
A pious man, whom duty brought

To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
With fruitless labor Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale
And--STANLEY! was the cry;—

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand above his head,

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On. Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

The Changed Cross.

T was a time of sadness, and my heart,

Although it knew and loved the better part, Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, And all the needful discipline of life.

And while I thought on these as given to me

My trial tests of faith and love to be

It seemed as if I never could be sure

That faithful to the end I should endure.

And thus, no longer trusting to His might,
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,”
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,

The thought arose-My cross I cannot bear.