mentioned as forming the right shoulder of the cross. This is not only the most beautiful fragment of the ruin, but, as the burial place of Sir Walter Scott, it is also by far the most interesting. Saint Mary's Aisle is divided into three places of interment. The first belonged to the Haliburtons of Merton, and is now occupied by their descendant, Sir Walter Scott. The second belongs to the Erskines of Shieldfield, descended from an illegitimate branch of the noble family of Marr, and memorable for having given birth to Ebenezer and Ralph Erskine, two eminent clerical characters of the last century. The third is the property of the Haigs of Bemerside, a baronial family of very great antiquity. Upon the wall and under the east window of the first, there still remains the monument of John Haliburton and his wife J. Sinclair, upon which can still be read the following inscription :Sub hoc tumulo, hic jacet,

Johannes Haliburton, Baro de Mertoun, vir religione et virtuto clarus— Moritur 17 Augusti, anno Christi, 1640, Etatis suæ 65.

The late Earl of Buchan took peculiar

delight in improving and ornamenting the grounds around Dryburgh abbey. Amongst other things, he erected over the Tweed, at his own expense, what was then considered a very handsome suspension bridge; and if the march of improvement have of late years given a greater degree of elegance to these useful and beautiful structures, and have thus made that of the Earl of Buchan to suffer from comparison, it lessens not its utility, for in crossing by the ferry boat which formerly plied there, accidents frequently happened, whereas the public can now cross the river at the same expence as formerly, and in perfect safety.

On the northern bank of the river, and not far from the end of the bridge, stands a temple dedicated by his Lordship to the Muses; an open building supported by nine Doric columns, on each of which is inscribed the name of one of these deities. Within the temple is a cast of Apollo Belvidere, and on the top a bust of Thomson, the poet of the Seasons. Occupying a commanding situation on the brink of a neighbouring rock, stands a colossal statue of Sir William Wallace, the Scot

tish patriot, sculptured by Mr John Smith of Darnick. It is thought by many to be very happily executed, and from other specimens which exist of the skill of the same artist, it appears sufficiently evident, that had his attention been exclusively directed to sculpture, he might have rivaled in that art the most emient of his countrymen.

The tout ensemble of natural and artificial beauty around Dryburgh, says the author of the Border Tour, cannot be surpassed; and the view-hunter, who leaves his own country to visit Italy and France, is inexcusable, unless he has first looked upon a scene so inexpressibly lovely. Cordially agreeing with the talented tourist respecting the numerous attractions of this enchanting spot, we shall conclude our description of it with his

INVITATION TO DRYBURGH.

Addressed to a Lady.

Well dost thou love, thou lovely one,
To gaze upon the setting sun.

To view the spring revive the scene,
Decking the trees with living green;
View winter pour its wrath along,
Or list the reaper's chearful song:-
Each scene each season of the year,
Is dear to Nature's worshipper.

Then haste with me where sweets combine
To form, in sooth, a scene divine,

And while away a summer hour,
In DRYBURGH's mild and classic bower.
Here, 'midst the holy ruin'd pile,
The apples blush, the flowerets smile,
Glowing along the blacken'd wall,
Like roses on a funeral pall.
See here the sculptured hero dare
The strife of elemental war,

His eyes are fierce as when he broke

False Edward's base and blood-stain❜d yoke;
Here, too, the murmuring of the stream
The sound of a celestial hymn,

Sung over infant cherubim.

Ah, here would Coleridge love to raise.
The sweetest of his plaintive lays;
For such a scene his "Ladye" saw,
When fear and rapture, joy and awe,
In her obey'd his harp's wild tone,
And made her heart the poet's own.*
And here may Hope, with purple wing,
Injured by fortune's buffeting,

Her plumes refresh, and vision'd see
Rapture succeeding agony,

Again her falling columns rear,

Deem earth again a painless sphere,

And bid each prospect that she views

Glow brightly with etherial hues.

Then haste with me where sweets combine

To form, in sooth, a scene divine,

And while away a summer hour
In Dryburgh's mild and classic bower.

"And thus I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride."

COLERIDGE'S "Dark Ladye."

AN ACCOUNT

OF

THE LAST DAYS OF

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The fine natural scenery by which Dryburgh is surrounded, and the objects which we have particularised, with a few others of minor consequence, have hitherto formed no small inducement to visit it; but these will comparatively speaking, yield but a sorry part of the thrilling interest with which these ruins will in all time coming be regarded. To St Mary's aisle will the stranger from all countries first direct his steps, and on that fragment of Gothic grandeur will his parting look be turned. Beneath its hoary arches were laid the mortal remains of Sir Walter Scott,

K