Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1898-08-02

stream he loved so we'll, whose murmur
is now an eternal requiem, the Last Lay
Of the Great Minstrel is ended!
A white dove has left her snowy PIN
ion on the silent temple-a fit emblem
Of the white soul Of him whose ashes
rest beneath-snd with reverence the
hand reaches In through the iron grating
to add this tender memorial to the sac
red keepsakes to carry back across the
sea.
We turn away and retrace our foot
steps back to classic Abbotsford. and
enter, but "Hushed is the Harp-the
Minstrel gone" yet not gone, for 3
Presence still is here, where every thing
Is 40 he left II, In his study-the pen he
wrote the last words with, the desk and
the great armchair In which we must cit
and look around upon the walls levied
with books on all sides, the great picture
OF horses and warriors over the mantle
and underneath the massive and elegant
fireplace framed In black and white mar
BILE. Adjoining Is the library with more
and more books, till one wonders II II
could be possible for one person to read
all those volumes In lifetime. Hang
ing on the wall In the armory Is huge
old Border war-horn which he got one
day while securing the country with his
friend Shortreed, who says, "How great
he was when he was made master o.
that
Outside, the grounds are beautiful.
Great trees on every side, but from the
windows looking out upon the Tweed
there are none to obstruct the view, but
four large yew trees at one corner, and
at the other stately white birch whose
dazzling garment Of snowy white, CLEANS
through Its leafless branches. A little
footpath leads down TO the river with IT.
slsbsster pebbles. In this vicinity Is
laid the scene Of the Lay Of the Last
Minstrel, and yonder Is stately old
Brsnksome Tower,
"The feast was DER In Branksome Tower,
And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower"
80 potent and SO vivid Is the spell, that
we can almost see and hear that "Ladye,"
fair Margaret OF Branksome as
"0n the high turret sitting lone
She wakes at times the luies soft tone"
On the other side OF the hill is Fair
Melrose with It's famous ruined Abbey,
whose little hostelry, the "king's Arms"
must be- our resting place tonight, for
III thou wouldsr view fair Melrosc Alright
Go visit IL by the pale moonlight"
And so when the moon has climbed the
hill, streaming her silver beams like n
maiden's tresses over the place
where distant Tweed IL heari to rave,
And the owlc, 10 hoot o'er the deal mans grave"
We wait for the midnight hour. No
midnight laads are stirring now, and
only the sound Of piper In the distance
piping the melancholy strains OF "Scots
wha hse WI Wallace bled."-and the
words as We recall them, "Scots whom
Bruce has often led" are strangely APP
propriate to the occasion, for the heart
of the brave Bruce, beating no more
with high hope and chivalrous loyalty,
lies silent here, meath the altar OF yon
,jestic pile-s fitting memorial in Its
decaying grandeur to the bygone glory
OF the Scottish Kings, and u solemn re-
minder also that time lays low all ambi-
tions and aspirations as he levels To
earth Its majestic monuments OF human
genius.
Near by Is the tomb Of James Douglas,
the hero OF Otterburne, where
THE dying lamps did burn
Before thy low and lonely urn,
u gallant chief of otterbnrne"
No profane foot can enter the enclosure
at night, so We must be content to walk
around aud gaze. Inside, where once
were cloisters, the green grass still soft
and luxuriant has csrpeted the stone
floor that long ago resounded TO football
OF sandled monk. No sign OF life dis
turbs the gloom and tranquility OF the
hour, except the pendent grassblsde
trembling In the breeze, and the occa-
sionsl stirring OF dove nested within
the crumbliug gturret-there Is only death
night and decay.
Melrose Abbey Is perhaps the most
famous ruin In Scotland from It's inti
mate association with SCOTS immortal
Lay. Ii was 100 years in building, and
with the neighboring monasteries OF
Dryburgh aud Jedburgh, presided over
greater estates than the greatest Lords
or Kings.
But now we must say goodbye TO the
Land OF Scott, and TO all the rest OF this
dear old Land Of the Bluebell and
Heather. Methinks we can take leave
OF IL In no filter words than the sublime
and beautiful verse OF It's own Magical
Minstrel whom we have just followed TO
his last resting place.
Farewell TO the land where the clouds love To
rest,
Like the .hroud OF the dead on the mountains
cold breast,
And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky"
And now, kind reader, our paths diverge
you to return to your native land,
your companion to traverse still other
lands and other seas. But II you have
found in this pilgrimage so much to
touch the heart and uplift the soul as
your fellow traveller, then this journey
has not been in vain. Every one Of our
humble friends that gave US welcome
and help and cheer, together with the
pictures that Nature unfolded to our
vision, will never, never be forgotten.
But after all, we have found no truer
hearts, and looked upon no landscapes
that can surpass the products OF our
own old rugged Msine-xnd the more
one sees of other lands, the more will
they think of her beautiful hills that are
prolific of Inspiration as they are stored
with precious gems-snd indeed, the
jewels they hide In their ragged breasts
are not as priceless as the divine mo-
ments they give US, while gazing on
their majesty sublime!
So, with one more quotation from our
Minstrels Lay,
Lives there man with soul so dead,
Who never TO himself hath said,
This Is my own. my Native Land"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on foreign strand