And O! the bosom that sigh'd below Was pure and soft as the winter snow! A tear-drop bright in her dark eye shone, How blest is he in the moonlight hour My heart was a stranger to love's young dream Exulting 'midst fire and blood, Then sang the pibroch loud, 'Dying, but unsubdued-Scotland for ever.'' See at the war-note the proud horses prancing— The thick groves of steel trodden down in their path, The eyes of the brave like their bright swords are glancing, Triumphantly riding through ruin and death. LET ITALY BOAST. Let Italy boast of her bloom-shaded waters, Her bowers, and her vines, and her warm sunny skies, FRAGMENT OF A DREAM. I follow'd it on by the pale moonlight, Through the deep and the darksome wood; Of her sons drinking love from the eyes of her It tarried-I trembled-it pointed and fled! daughters, While freedom expires mid their softness and sighs. Scotland's bleak mountains wild, Where hoary cliffs are piled, Towering in grandeur, are dearer to me! Land of the misty cloud Land of the tempest loudLand of the brave and proud-land of the free! Enthroned on the cliff of the dark Highland mountain, The spirit of Scotland reigns fearless and free; While her tartan-folds wave over blue lake and fountain, Exulting she sings, looking over the sea: "Here on my mountains wild I have serenely smiled, Where armies and empires against me were hurled; Throned on my native rocks, Of Cæsar, and Denmark, and Rome, and the world. When kings of the nations in council assemble, The frown of my brow makes their proud hearts to quake, The flash of mine eye makes the bravest to tremble, The sound of my war-song makes armies to shake. France long shall mind the strain Sung on her bloody plain, "Twas a grave where the spirit had stood: 'Twas a grave-but 'twas mystery and terror to think How the bed of the dead could be here; "Twas here I had met in the morning of life With one that was loving and dear: "Twas here we had wander'd while gathering flowers In the innocent days of our childhood, And here we were screen'd from the warm sunny showers By the thickening green of the wildwood. And here in the sweet summer morning of love Young affection first open'd its blossom, When none were so innocent, loving, and kind As the maiden that lay in my bosom: I look'd on the woods; they were budding as green As the sorrowful night that we parted,When turning again to the grave I had seen, At the voice of a spirit I started!— In terror I listen'd! No sound met mine ear By the green grave it hover'd, mine eye could perceive, Where a white covered coffin now lay While Europe's bold armies with terror did It hover'd not long, but again through the woods shiver; It mournfully glided away!— HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL was born at Sorbie, in the Vale of Ewes, Dumfriesshire, Sept. 23, 1798. His father was a shepherd, and a man of strong though uneducated mind. Young Henry herded the cows in summer, and went to school during the winter months. At first a careless scholar, he afterwards became a diligent one, and while "out-bye herding" was either studying nature or a book, or composing verses. The lines of an epistle written by him subsequently will convey some idea of his habits at this period: "My early years were pass'd far on I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, So rapt the charm that still beguiled After herding for two years at Deloraine he removed to Todrig to follow the same occupapation. Here he met a congenial spirit in William Knox, the cultured author of "The Lonely Hearth," and their friendship continued ever afterwards. "While here," he says, "my whole leisure time was employed in writing. I composed while walking and looking the hill. I also wrote down among the wilds. I yet remember, as a dream of poetry itself, how blessedly bright and beautiful exceedingly were these wilds themselves early in summer mornings, or when the white mists filled up the glens below, and left the summits of the mountains near and far away as sight could travel, green, calm, and serene as an eternity." While at Todrig Riddell's style of thought and experience-doubtless through contact with William Knox-underwent a great change. He abandoned frivolous compositions, and applied himself to sacred themes. "My reading," he says, "was extended, and having begun to appreciate more correctly what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education (to fit himself for the Christian ministry). The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition, but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my income, my prospects | bid fair for his progress in the church; but in behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in this year that the severest trial that had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the same time the event, instead of subduing my secret aim, rather strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own gainings. I bade farewell to the crook and plaid." He went to school at Biggar, where he found a kind schoolmaster, who taught him much beside Latin and Greek. Here he studied earnestly, and cultivated a circle of intellectual acquaintances, and in due time entered as a student at the University of Edinburgh, where he attracted the attention of Professor Dunbar by a translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. He also won for himself the affectionate regard of Professor Wilson, whose house was always open to him, with all the companionship of genius which graced its hospitable roof-tree. When his university course was completed, his last session having been spent at St. Andrews, Mr. Riddell went to reside at Ramsay Cleughburn with his brother, and shortly after became the minister of Teviothead. He then married the excellent lady whose affectionate counsel and companionship were a solace and stay to him in his chequered life. There was no manse at Teviothead when he received the charge. He therefore occupied the farmhouse of Flex, nine miles distant; and as his income of £52 a year could not enable him to keep a conveyance, he had to walk eighteen miles every Sabbath, and whenever he went to visit his hearers. The Duke of Buccleuch built a cottage for the minister, and it was while it was in progress that, returning home from preaching one Sabbath afternoon, wet and weary, Mrs. Riddell, looking forward with pleasant anticipation of getting the new home, exclaimed, while he was changing his wet clothes, "Ah! Henry, I wish we were hame to our ain folk!" This was the inspiration to which we are indebted for his most exquisite lyric-a strain which cannot die. Mr. Riddell ministered faithfully to the people of Teviothead for nearly nine years. His genius and worth had been recognized and appreciated, and everything seemed to 1841 a serious attack of nervous discase came upon him, not to pass away for years; and when he did recover, it was deemed prudent that he should not return to the labours of the pastorate. The Duke of Buccleuch generously permitted him to occupy the manse cottage during his lifetime, and also granted him a small annuity and a piece of ground beside his dwelling. This was enough for his simple wants and for the education of his three boys, one of whom died full of poetic promise when budding into manhood. During the remaining years of his life the poet resided in this spot by the banks of the Teviot, reclaiming and beautifying his land, and cherishing his poetic tastes. He had intended to be present at the meeting of the Border Counties Association, held at Hawick, July 28, and his name was associated with the toast of the "literature of the Borders;" but on that day he was seized with a mortal illness, and died on July 30, 1870, aged seventy-two. On August 2, surrounded by a great concourse of friends from far and near, all that was mortal of the Bard of Teviotdale was laid in its last resting-place, in that "churchyard that lonely is lying " Amid the deep greenwood by Teviot's wild strand.' The poet's loving and faithful wife died May 29, 1875, and now rests by his side. Riddell wrote much, and much that he wrote became extremely popular. When a student of theology he composed many of his best songs for the Irish Minstrel and Select Melodies of R. A. Smith, and for the Original National Melodies of Peter M'Leod. His Songs of the Ark, with other Poems, appeared in 1831, followed in 1844 by a prose work entitled The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking. Three years later he published a third volume, Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces; and in 1855 he prepared for publication, by request of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a translation of the Gospel of St. Matthew into Lowland Scotch, followed in 1857 by a similar translation of the Psalms. Mr. Riddell also wrote a valuable series of papers on "Store-Farming in the South of Scotland," and a number of prose tales similar to those in Wilson's Tales of the Border. His last composition was a poem written for a meeting of the Border Association, held at | and that you may judge for yourself I will Hawick two days before his death. In 1871 two volumes of Riddell's poetical works, accompanied by a portrait, and a well-written memoir from the pen of his friend James Brydon, M. D., were published in Glasgow. In a letter accompanying a song written for Mrs. Mary Wilson Gibbs in 1867, the venerable poet remarks, In addressing a song to you I wish that it had turned out somewhat more worth while than now appears to be the case. At all events I might have adopted a more harmonious measure, and thereby have given myself at least a chance of wording more harmonious verses: and I could now wish that I had done so, regardless of the air: but I was ambitious of putting the air in your possession, it having been composed by the Ettrick Shepherd. I am no daub-or rather a great daub in the literal sense of the term-at copying music, and in attempting to give you a copy I am uncertain whether I have given you alto- | gether a correct one; but I hope you will make it out in some way. Of the song which I originally wrote to it Hogg was wonderfully fond, and I had always to sing it to him when we met. I dare say it is much better as a song than that which I send you: I was not then so hoary-headed, and could write with more freedom and vigour. Yet it is not greatly unlike the verses with which I trouble you, also herewith copy it, more especially as it also related to one who could by her exquisite singing cast a spell of enchantment over the human heart. 'Mrs. Oliver informed me when you intended to leave old Scotland: I therefore made up my mind to write out these things to-day. They are of little consequence I readily confess, but from the respect which I entertained for your father, together with that which I entertain for yourself, I felt anxious to do something that might if possible prevent you from utterly forgetting that we had met. I shall hope that you will soon return to the 'gay green braes of Teviotdale,' and cheer our hearts as in days gone by." A brother of the late bard, known as Borthwick Riddell, a dark, stalwart, and independent-looking man, who was, both in regard to musical talent and personal appearance, an impersonation of the spirit of ancient Border minstrelsy--a worthy representative of Allister M'Allister, Habbie Simpson, and Rab the Ranter-was in his day and generation the most celebrated piper on the Border. As the writer listened to his soul-stirring strains near Canobie Lee, he appeared to be just such a minstrel as we can imagine strode forth before the Bruce, the Bold Buccleuch, or the Black Douglas of bygone days. His doggie frolies roun' and roun', and may Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath not weel be stay'd, bell like my cheek; |