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Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well-graced parts #r. Kemble's Farewell address, May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,

Not quite to be forgotten, even when
ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE You look on better actors, younger men :

And if your bosoms own this kindly debt

Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-

0, how forget !-how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft return’d with fame!

How oft around your circle this weak hand
As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,

Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground

Till the full burst of inspiration came, Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

By mem’ry treasured, while her reign endures, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,

Those hours must live--and all their charms are yours Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past,

O favour'd Land ! renown'd for arts and arms, And that these valued plaudits are my last.

For manly talent, and for female charms, Why should we part, while still some powers remain, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, That in your service strive not yet in vain?

What fervent benedictions now were thine! Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,

But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, And sense of duty fire the fading eye;

When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all the wrongs of age remain subdued

And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?

Is–Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL.
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;

Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,

To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy;
Till every sneering youth around enquires,

WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar “ Is this the man who once could please our sires ?” The shrine that is his guiding star, And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,

With awe his footsteps print the road To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.

Which the loved saint of yore has trod. This must not be ;--and higher duties crave,

As near he draws, and yet more near, Some space between the theatre and the grave,

His dim eye sparkles with a tear; That, like the Roman in the Capitol,

The Gothic fane's unwonted show, I may adjust my mantle ere I fall :

The choral hymn, the tapers' glow, My life's brief act in public service flown,

Oppress his soul; while they delight The last, the closing scene, must be my own.

And chasten rapture with affright.



1 These lines first appeared, April 6, 1817, in a weekly sheet, to deliver his farewell.” .

“Mr. Kemble delivered called the “Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was Ballantyne and Co., at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr. evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. James Ballantyne says, “ The character fixed upon, with His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to rewhich he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of tire. The honse again stood up, and cheered him with the Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his dropped upon his professional life for ever." mind. - He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, 'determined to leave behind him the 2 These lines were first printed in "The Forget-Me-Not, for most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown,' 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the au- benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817 ; but reached her dience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they too late for her purpose. In a letter which inclosed them, ceased -were resumed-rose again -- were reiterated --and the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, the day on which they were sent-that he thought the idea and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth, (the better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him,) of their adding perhaps "a little salt to the bill."

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With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,-
Are they still such as once they were ?

Or is the dreary change in me?

We too, who ply the Thespian art,
Oft feel such bodings of the heart,
And, when our utmost powers are strain’d,
Dare hardly hope your favour gain’d.
She, who from sister climes has sought
The ancient land where Wallace fought ;-
Land long renown'd for arms and arts,
And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts ;-)
She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task
To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain’d and tuneless chord,

How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

The Monks of Bangor's March.

The Sun upon the Tweirdlaw Hill.

Air-" Ymdaith Mionge."




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[“ Scott's enjoyment of his new territories was, how

1817. ever, interrupted by various returns of his cramp, and the depression of spirit which always attended, in his case, the use of opium, the only medicine that seemed ETHELFRID or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, har to have power over the disease. It was while strugg

ing besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a Briling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this

tish Prince, adrancing to relieve it, the religious of the

neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in proautumn, that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth,

cession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. namely, the then naked height overhanging the nor

But the British being totally defeated, the heathen ricthern side of the Cauldshiels Loch, from which Mel.

tor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their rose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick

monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted

is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's

been played at their ill-omened procession. hand.”-Life, vol. v., p. 237.) AIR-" Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run."

When the heathen trumpet's clang

Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.2 The Veiled nun and friar grey

words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies, March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; (1822.]

High their holy anthem sounds,

Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds, The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

Floating down the silvan Dee, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

O miserere, Domine !

| “O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms.“

Lines written for Mr. J. Kemble.

9 “Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks, ) who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air." GEORGE THOMSON.

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Sad over earth and ocean sounding,

And England's distant cliffs astounding,

Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,

Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

In Bourdeaux dying lay.
Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817.
FROM Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond are «« Poitiers, by the way, is always spelled with an s,

and I know no reason why orthography should give From Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean is sweep- place to rhyme.?”

ingFrom Largs, where the Scotch gave the Northmen a “Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said, drilling

“And let the casement be display'd, From Ardrossan, whose harbour cost many a shil

That I may see once more ling

The splendour of the setting sun From Old Cumnock, where beds are as hard as a Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, plank, sir

And Blaye's empurpled shore.” From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanqubar,

«« Garonne and sun is a bad rhyme. Why, Frank, This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor. you do not even understand the beggarly trade you

W. S.

have chosen.'"

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1 William of Malmsbury says, that in his time the extent ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the deso- quantum vix alibi cernas." lation occasioned by the massacre ;-"tot semirutí parietes

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“Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep,

“ The library at Osbaldistone Hall was a gloomy His fall the dews of evening steep,

room,” &c.
As if in sorrow shed.
So soft shall fall the trickling tear,

(2.)-CHAP. XIII.
When England's maids and matrons hear Dire was his thought, who first in poison steep'd
Of their Black Edward dead.

The weapon form'd for slaughter-direr his,

And worthier of damnation, who instillid
“ And though my sun of glory set,

The mortal venom in the social cup,
Nor France nor England shall forget

To fill the veins with death instead of life.
The terror of my name;

And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,

(3.)-Chap. XXII.
Through clouds of blood and flame."

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the

place “« A cloud of fame is something new—Good-mor- Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,row, my masters all, and a merry Christmas to you ! Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Why, the bellman writes better lines.'”

Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,
Chap. ii.

Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff,
Ere yet ’tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,

The desperate revelries of wild despair. (2.)—TRANSLATION FROM ARIOSTO.

Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds

That the poor captive would have died ere prac1817.

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

The Prison, Scene iii. Act i. “Miss VERNON proceeded to read the first stanza, which was nearly to the following purpose:”—


Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen, LADIES, and knights, and arms, and love's fair Earth, clad in russet, scorn’d the lively green; flame,

No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sing;

No bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo; What time the Moors from sultry Africk came,

No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, Led on by Agramant, their youthful king

Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here. He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring

Prophecy of Famine. O'er the broad wave, in France to waste and war; Such ills from old Trojano's death did spring,

(5.)-CHAP. XXXI. Which to avenge he came from realms afar,

“ Woe to the vanquish d!” was stern Brenno's And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman Emperor.


When sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallic swordOf dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall sound,

“Woe to the vanquish'd !” when his massive blade In import never known in prose or rhyme,

Bore down the scale against her ransom weighd, How He, the chief of judgment deem'd profound,

And on the field of foughten battle still, For luckless love was crazed upon a time-

Who knows no limit save the victor's will.

The Gaulliad. « « There is a great deal of it,' said she, glancing along the paper, and interrupting the sweetest sounds which mortal ears can drink in; those of a youthful

(6.)CHAP. XXXII. poet's verses, namely, read by the lips which are

And be he safe restored ere evening set, dearest to them."

Or, if there's vengeance in an injured heart,
Chap. xvi. And power to wreak it in an arm'd hand,
Your land shall ache for't.

Old Play.

(7.)-CHAP. xxxvi. (1.)--Chap. x.

Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest, In the wide pile, by others heeded not,

Like the shroud of the dead on the mountain's cold Hers was one sacred solitary spot.

breast; Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves contain, To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply, For moral hunger food, and cures for moral pain. And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.


Epilogue to the Appeal.

was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous ex

pedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, SPOKEN BY MRS. HENRY SIDDONS,

which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the FEB. 16, 1818.

approaching feud ; and hence the Gaelic words, “ Cha

till mi tuille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha till MackrimA CAT of yore (or else old Æsop lied)


,I shall never return; although Macleod reWas changed into a fair and blooming bride,

turns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!The But spied a mouse upon her marriage-day,

piece is but too well known, from its being the strain Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her prey;

with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you saw,

Isles usually take leave of their naive shore.
Threw off poor me, and pounced upon papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made loose,
He twisted round my sire's the literal noose.
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labour
Since the New Jail became our next-door neighbour.?

MacLeod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, Yes, times are changed; for, in your fathers' age,

The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys; The lawyers were the patrons of the stage;

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and However high advanced by future fate,

quiver, There stands the bench (points to the Pit) that first As Mackrimmon sings, “ Farewell to Dunvegan for received their weight.

ever! The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see,

Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foamDoom though unwigg'd, and plead without a fee.

Farewell, each dark glen, in which red-deer are roamBut now, astounding each poor mimic elf,

ing; Instead of lawyers comes the law herself;

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river; Tromendous neighbour, on our right she dwells,

Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never! Builds high her towers and excavates her cells; While on the left she agitates the town,

“ Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are With the tempestuous question, Up or down ? 8

sleeping; 'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we,

Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weepLaw's final end, and law's uncertainty.

ing; But, soft! who lives at Rome the Pope must flatter, To each minstrel delusion, farewell !—and for everAnd jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter. Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never! Then—just farewell! We wait with serious awe The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before Till your applause or censure gives the law.

me, Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye,

The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me; We hold you Court and Counsel, Judge and Jury. But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not

Though devoted I go-to return again never!




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Mackrimmon's Lament."


“ Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewail

Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land! to the shores, whence unwilling we

Return-return-return shall we never !

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille !
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon!”

AIR-" Cha till mi tuille." 5

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod,

is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan

1 "The Appeal," a Tragedy, by John Galt, the celebrated by a lawsuit betwixt the Magistrates and many of the Inhabiauthor of the “ Annals of the Parish," and other Novels, was tants of the City, concerning a range of new buildings on the played for four nights at this time in Edinburgh.

western side of the North Bridge ; which the latter insisted 2 It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this piece should be removed as a deformity. are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh audience.

4 Written for Albyn's Anthology. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from the theatre.

5" We return no more." 3 At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agitated 6 See a note on Banshee, Lady of the Lake, ante, p. 242.

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