While, trembling for her lover's fate,

At distance stood the maid.

Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale;

Till, in a lowly glen,

He met the furious Sir John Græme,
With twenty of his men.

'Where goest thou, little page? (he said) So late who did thee send ?—

For he has slain fierce Donald Græme,

His blood is on his sword;

And far, far distant are his men,

Nor can assist their lord.”—

'And has he slain my brother dear?'
The furious chief replies:
'Dishonour blast my name, but he

By me ere morning dies!'

Say, page, where is Sir James the Ross?

I will thee well reward.'

'He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park ;

Matilda is his guard.'

They spur'd their steeds, and furious flew
Like lightning o'er the lea:

They reach'd Lord Buchan's lofty tow'rs

By dawning of the day.

Matilda stood without the gate

Upon a rising ground,

And watch'd each object in the dawn,

All ear to every sound.

Where sleeps the Ross? (began the Græme)

Or has the felon fled?

This hand shall lay the wretch on earth

By whom my brother bled.'

And now the valiant knight awoke,

The virgin shrieking heard:
Straight up he rose, and drew his sword,
When the fierce band appear'd.

Your sword last night my brother slew,
His blood yet dims its shine;
And, ere the sun shall gild the morn,
Your blood shall reek on mine.'

• Your words are brave,' the chief return'd; But deeds approve the man:

Set by your men, and hand to hand
We'll try what valour can.'

With dauntless step he forward strode,

And dar'd him to the fight:

The Græme gave back, and fear'd his arm, For well he knew his might.

Four of his men, the bravest four,
Sunk down beneath his sword;
But still he scorn'd the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.

Behind him basely came the Græme,
And pierc'd him in the side:

Out spouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dy'd.

But yet his hand not drop'd the sword,
Nor sunk he to the ground,

Till through his enemy's heart his steel
Had forc'd a mortal wound.

Græme, like a tree by winds o'erthrown, Fell breathless on the clay;

And down beside him sunk the Ross,

And faint and dying lay.

Matilda saw, and fast she ran :

O spare his life! (she cried)

Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life,
Let her not be denied.'

Her well-known voice the hero heard;
He rais'd his death-clos'd eyes;
He fix'd them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies:

• In vain Matilda begs a life,
By death's arrest denied ;
My race is run-adieu my love!'
Then clos'd his eyes, and died.

The sword, yet warm, from his left side, With frantic hand she drew:

'I come, Sir James the Ross, (she cried) I come to follow you.'

The hilt she lean'd against the ground,
And bar'd her snowy breast
st;

Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sunk to endless rest.

THE CONSULTATION OF PHYSICIANS.

AN EPISTLE FROM BATH.

[ANSTEY.]

DEAR mother, my time has been wretchedly spent,
With a gripe or a hickup wherever I went,

My stomach all swell'd, till I thought it would burst,
Sure never poor mortal with wind was so curst!
If ever I ate a good supper at night,

I dream'd of the devil, and wak'd in a fright:
And so, as I grew every day worse and worse,
The doctor advis'd me to send for a nurse,

And the nurse was so willing my health to restore,
She beg'd me to send for a few doctors more;
For when any difficult work's to be done,

Many heads can dispatch it much sooner than one;
And I find there are doctors enough at this place,
If you want to consult in a dangerous case!

So they all met together, and thus began talking:

Good doctor, I'm your's 'tis a fine day for walking