Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.