rate." With respect to the various petitioners, the bakers, the glaziers, the hair-dressers, &c., they all maintain, that though FitzHum may have been a spurious prince, yet, undoubtedly the man had so much sense and political discernment, that he well deserved to have been a true one.

Knight's Mag.

THE CAMERONIAN BANNER.

O BANNER! fair banner! a century of woe

Has flowed on thy people since thou wert laid low:
Hewn down by the godless, and sullied and shorn,
Defiled with base blood, and all trodden and torn!

Thou wert lost, and John Balfour's bright steel-blade in vain
Shed their best blood as fast as moist April sheds rain-
Young, fierce, gallant Hackstoun, the river in flood
Sent rejoicing to sea with a tribute of blood;

Fair banner! 'gainst thee bloody Claver'se came hewing
His road through our helms, and our glory subduing;
And Nithsdale Dalzell-his fierce deeds to requite,
On his house darkest ruin descended like night—
Came spurring and full on the lap of our war,
Disastrous shot down like an ominous star.

And Allan Dalzell-may his name to all time

Stand accurs'd, and be named with nought nobler than rhyme
Smote thee down, thou fair banner, all rudely, and left

Thee defiled, and the skull of the bannerman cleft.

Fair banner, fair banner! a century of woe

Has flowed on thy people since thou wert laid low.
And now, lovely banner! led captive and placed
'Mid the spoils of the scoffer, and scorned and disgraced,
And hung with the helm and the glaive on the wall,

'Mongst idolatrous figures to wave in the hall,

Where the lips, wet with wine, jested with thee profane,

And the minstrel, more graceless, mixed thee with his strain,
Till the might and the pride of thy conqueror fell,

And the owl sat and whoop'd in the halls of Dalzell.

O thou holy banner! in weeping and wail

Let me mourn thy soiled glory, and finish my tale.
And yet, lovely banner! thus torn from the brave,
And disgraced by the graceless, and sold by the slave,
And hung o'er a hostel, where rich ruddy wine,
And the soul-cheering beverage of barley divine,
Floated glorious, and sent such a smoke-in his flight
The lark stayed in air, and sung, drunk with delight.
Does this lessen thy lustre ? or tarnish thy glory?
Diminish thy fame, and traduce thee in story?
Oh, no, beauteous banner! loosed free on the beam,
By the hand of the chosen, long, long shalt thou stream!
And the damsel dark-eyed, and the covenant swain,

Shall bless thee, and talk of dread Bothwell again.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

235

THE MINSTREL'S HOUR.

WHEN day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,

And Hesper's lamp begins to glow

Along the western blue,

And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the minstrel loves.

Far in the dimness curtain'd round,
He hears the echoes all

Of rosy vale, or grassy mound,
Or distant waterfall:

And shapes are ou his dreaming sight,
That keep their beauty for the night.

And still, as shakes the sudden breeze,
The forest's deepening shade,
He hears on Tuscan evening seas
The silver serenade:

Or, to the field of battle borne,

Swells at the sound of trump and horn.

The star, that peeps the leaves between,
To him is but the light

That, from some lady's bower of green,
Shines to her pilgrim knight;
Who feels her spell around him twine,
And hastens home from Palestine.

Or, if some wandering peasant's song
Come sweeten'd from the vale,
He hears the stately, mitred throng
Around the altar's pale;

Or sees the dark-eyed nuns of Spain,
Bewitching, blooming, young, in vain.

And thus he thinks the hour away
In sweet, unworldly folly;

And loves to see the shades of grey,
That feed his melancholy:

Finding sweet speech and thought in all,
Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall.

REV. G. CROLY.

THE DEMON MUSICIAN.*

"And a magic voice and verse
Hath baptized thee with a curse;
And a spirit of the air

Hath begirt thee with a snare;
In the wind there is a voice
Shall forbid thee to rejoice;
And to thee shall night deny
All the quiet of her sky;
And the day shall have a sun

Which shall make thee wish it done."-BYRON.

ON a calm evening, in the spring of the year 18-, a group of peasants were enjoying themselves in a vineyard on the border of the Black Forest. The toils of the day being over, they had assembled to celebrate the marriage of two young villagers who had long been attached, and were now united. The girl was a sparkling brunette, full of life and gayety; the youth, more sedate, somewhat retired in habits, a great lover of music, and universally considered a most skilful performer. He was an orphan, and derived his chief support from his violin, with which he was wont every night to entertain his neighbours, who, in return, stored his cottage with voluntary contributions; and many of the damsels envied Madeline for her good fortune in winning such a handsome young husband as Ursenstein, the musician.

At a small distance from the rest sat the bridegroom and his bride; it might have been thought that they had thus withdrawn to indulge in their new-licensed love, but was not so; for though the eyes of the girl were fixed tenderly upon his countenance, he met not their fond expression. He was looking earnestly through the bushes, and listening eagerly for some distant sound. The bride watched him for a time in silence, content with her untold happiness. She was thinking that he was now irrevocably her own, her very own, and that one idea was too exquisite to need the aid of language; but as his abstraction continued unbroken, his every sense seemingly concentrated upon some unseen object, Madeline began to feel that she was neglected, and timidly inquired what attracted his attention. The bridegroom answered not, but he held his head nearer to the ground, and drew in his breath that he might listen more intently. Madeline put up her pretty red lip poutingly, and pulled, with a sudden twitch, a coral blossom from the loaded branches that drooped around her; then, with the tenacity of feminine pride, she stole a cautious glance towards her young friends, as though she

From The Royal Lady's Magazine.'

feared that they should witness her lover's coldness. A smile almost of triumph met her glance-it was on the face of one whose love she had rejected. She coloured, and endeavoured to seem engaged in affixing the flower tastefully to her girdle, but it would not be arranged as she wished, and, with a hand less gentle than usual, she plucked it from her waist, scattering its crimson leaves upon the greensward at her side, and all the while she tried to look as if she were not vexed.

"Enchanting! exquisite !" exclaimed Ursenstein.

The brilliant eyes of the bride flashed, and a smile mantled over her peachy cheek; but Ursenstein was not thinking of her, and he saw not that witching look. Madeline felt that he did not; her glances fell upon the tattered flower, and a pang darted through her heart, for it seemed, in its scattered loveliness, to be an emblem of herself. A sigh struggled from her lips-it waked Ursenstein into recollection, for he loved the fond girl dearly.

"Why sighs my Madeline upon her bridal day?" he asked, looking tenderly into her face. With half a tear and half a blush, she answered, "You were not wont, Ursenstein, to be so absent."— "Nor am I absent now, sweetest. But who could listen to sounds

so delicious without emotion ?"" Sounds? I heard none !""None!""No, nor you neither; I do believe that you are dreaming. I ever told you that the violin was my rival, for I have often had cause to be jealous of it; and now see how you behave upon our bridal day. It is not kind, Ursenstein, indeed it is not.""Be not angry, dearest Madeline," said Ursenstein, putting aside the dark ringlets which played about her brows. "If I love music, I love nothing mortal save thyself; and surely my passion for so sweet an art can never interfere with thy happiness." "How can I tell that?" retorted the petulant girl. "If on a day like this you give way to such wild fancies, the time may come when music may make thee mad."-" Fancies! dear one; these were no fancied sounds, or if they were, I would that they might last for ever. Oh, Madeline! what so delicious, when the gentle breath of departing day is kissing its farewell upon thy cheek, to listen to the vesper hymn stealing over the valley. Then music is most dearly welcome to the melting heart; even the distant carol of the joyous peasants returning from their daily labour, sounds harmonious then. The evening song of the thankful birds rises sweetly then. But what bliss is it thus to feel thy presence, my own loved Madeline, while listening to such melody as that which even now was issuing from yonder clump of trees."-" I heard no such sounds," said Madeline, angrily; "and if such had been, my ear is as open as your own.' "Not hear it!-why hark!-even now it comes again!-nearer,

yet nearer.""I hear it not."-" It must be a wandering spirit from that multitudinous choir who are ever warbling, with tuneful voices, Glory to God, and to the Redeemer.'"

Suddenly a loud discordant crash was heard; Madeline shrieked, and put her hands to her ears. Ursenstein sprang from the ground, while a dense cloud seemed to fall around the startled peasants. "I heard it then," whispered Madeline, in low fearful tones. "It was indeed no mortal hand that struck that chord! it was too horrible!""Hush!" said Ursenstein, in the same low eager tone. "Hark, again! Is it not glorious? Is it not divine?" A strain of delicious melody swelled upon the breeze; all heard, all with mute attention listened. "It can be nothing good, Ursenstein. Let us go," entreated the bride, "for still in every dying fall I hear again that horrid crash. Well do you know that no holy thing has dwelling within the boundaries of that dreadful forest. Come, love," and she tried to drag him away; "it is not good that we should listen to those magic sounds." "Be it angel or devil, I will know what it is!" exclaimed Ursenstein, breaking from her hold, and dashing desperately among the trees. As he ran, the air grew louder and more gay, then it sank into scarcely breathing modulation. He could have wept to hear its pathetic wailing-then it was like the chirping of birds, but sweeter than birds ever sang-now it was louder than a full band-martial-exhilarating-now tender-now festive-now murmuring, with a cry more piteous than the complaining of evertortured fiends-now it was the shriek of the maniac-and now the fervent out-pourings of the one universal passion.

Still Ursenstein went on, until he had left the valley far behind; but he knew not that, for he never once looked back, nor saw the last red gleam of the passing twilight fade in the gloom of the black chasm into which he had penetrated. It was a rugged ravine, hollowed out of the solid rock by the force of the torrent. Above, the larch and mountain fir drooped heavily, making there an everlasting night. Reptiles and unclean birds had refuge there, and as Ursenstein entered, a startled owl hooted, and a bat, frightened from its retreat, swept roughly past his face. He felt it, but he scarcely dashed it aside, for now the sounds quivered and thrilled more harmoniously, falling into a tender cadence, and then all was silence.

"Wondrous divinity! sweet wakener of enraptured wood-nymphs, where art thou? Appear, and let me worship thee!" exclaimed Ursenstein, as impatiently he tried to pierce the dim obscurity of that dismal glen. No answer was returned; nor could his most searching glances discover aught that bore visible form or feature.

A black pool of stagnant water, half mantled over, stopped his farther progress; but Ursenstein flinched not, though adder's eyes