y commemorated by minstrel, be his age, his
land, his birth, or his language what they may!

FOOTNOTES:

[53] _The Minstrelsy of the English Border; being a collection of
Ballads, ancient, remodelled, and original, founded on well-known Border
Legends._ With illustrative notes by FREDERICK SHELDON. London: 1847.

_A Book of Roxburghe Ballads._ Edited by JOHN PAYNE COLLIER, Esq.
London: 1847.

_A Lytell Geste of Robin Hood._ Edited by JOHN MATHEW GUTCH, F.S.A. 2
vols. London: 1847.

_Poems and Songs of_ ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. London: 1847.

_The Poetical Works of_ WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, Second Edition, Enlarged.
Glasgow: 1847.

[54] We are indebted for the above extract to the Homeric Ballads,
published some years since in _Fraser's Magazine_. We hope that some day
these admirable translations may be collected together and published in
a separate form.

EPITAPH OF CONSTANTINE KANARIS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM MUeLLER.

I am Constantine Kanaris:
I, who lie beneath this stone,
Twice into the air in thunder
Have the Turkish galleys blown.

In my bed I died, a Christian,
Hoping straight with Christ to be;
Yet one earthly wish is buried
Deep within the grave with me.

That upon the open ocean
When the third Armada came,
They and I had died together.
Whirled aloft on wings of flame.

Yet 'tis something that they've laid me
In a land without a stain:
Keep it thus, my God and Saviour,
Till I rise from earth again!

W. E. A.

SCOTTISH MELODIES. BY DELTA.

THE MAID OF ULVA.

The hyacinth bathed in the beauty of spring,
The raven when autumn hath darken'd his wing,
Were bluest and blackest, if either could vie
With the night of thy hair, or the morn of thine eye,--

Fair maid of the mountain, whose home, far away,
Looks down on the islands of Ulva's blue bay;
May nought from its Eden thy footsteps allure,
To grieve what is happy, or dim what is pure!

Between us a foam-sheet impassable flows--
The wrath and the hatred of clans who are foes;
But love, like the oak, while the tempest it braves,
The firmer will root it, the fiercer it raves.

Not seldom thine eye from the watch-tower shall hail,
In the red of the sunrise the gleam of my sail,
And lone is the valley, and thick is the grove,
And green is the bower, that is sacred