burgh, and by the Rev. Dr. David Dickson, minister of St. Cuthbert's, who both expatiated in a very striking manner on the virtuous example of the deceased.

The court-yard and all the precincts of Abbotsford were crowded with uncovered spectators as the procession was arranged; and as it advanced through Darnick and Melrose, and the adjacent villages, the whole population appeared at their doors in like manner, almost all in black. The train of carriages extended, I understand, over more than a mile,—the Yeomanry followed in great numbers on horseback and it was late in the day ere we reached Dryburgh. Some accident, it was observed, had caused the hearse to halt for several minutes on the summit of the hill at Bemerside exactly where a prospect of remarkable richness opens, and where Sir Walter always had been accustomed to rein up his horse. The day was dark and lowering, and the wind high.

The wide enclosure at the abbey of Dryburgh was thronged with old and young; and when the coffin was taken from the hearse, and again laid on the shoulders of the afflicted serving-men, one deep sob burst from a thousand lips. Mr. Archdeacon Williams read the Burial Service of the Church of England; and thus, about half past five o'clock, in the evening of Wednesday, the 26th September, 1832, the remains of Sir Walter Scott were laid by the side of his wife, in the sepulchre of his ancestors, "in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."

THE NEW EDEN.

(WRITTEN FOR A HORTICULTURAL FESTIVAL.)

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CARCE could the parting ocean close,

SC

Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving bow, When o'er the rugged desert rose

The waves that tracked the Pilgrim's plough

Then sprang from many a rock-strewn field
The rippling grass, the nodding grain,
Such growths as English meadows yield
To scanty sun and frequent rain.

But when the fiery days were done,

And Autumn brought his purple haze,

Then, kindling in the slanted sun,

The hillsides gleamed with golden maize.

Nor treat his homely gift with scorn
Whose fading memory scarce can save
The hillocks where he sowed his corn,

The mounds that mark his nameless grave.

The food was scant, the fruits were few:
A red-streak glistened here and there;
Perchance in statelier precincts grew
Some stern old Puritanic pear.

Austere in taste, and tough at core
Its unrelenting bulk was shed,
To ripen in the Pilgrim's store

When all the summer sweets were fled.

Such was his lot, to front the storm

With iron heart and marble brow,

Nor ripen till his earthly form

Was cast from life's autumnal bough.

But ever on the bleakest rock

We bid the brightest beacon glow, And still upon the thorniest stock The sweetest roses love to blow.

So on our rude and wintry soil

We feed the kindling flame of art, And steal the tropic's blushing spoil To bloom on Nature's icy heart.

See how the softening Mother's breast

Warms to her children's patient wiles, Her lips by loving Labor pressed

Break in a thousand dimpling smiles,

From when the flushing bud of June
Dawns with its first auroral hue,
Till shines the rounded harvest-moon,
And velvet dahlias drink the dew.

Nor these the only gifts she brings;

Look where the laboring orchard groans,

And yields its beryl-threaded strings

For chestnut burs and hemlock cones.

Dear though the shadowy maple be,
And dearer still the whispering pine,
Dearest yon russet-laden tree

Browned by the heavy rubbing kine!

There childhood flung its venturous stone, And boyhood tried its daring climb, And though our summer birds have flown It blooms as in the olden time.

Nor be the Fleming's pride forgot,

With swinging drops and drooping bells, Freckled and splashed with streak and spot, On the warm-breasted, sloping swells;

Nor Persia's painted garden-queen,-
Frail Houri of the trellised wall, -
Her deep-cleft bosom scarfed with green,—
Fairest to see, and first to fall.

When man provoked his mortal doom,
And Eden trembled as he fell,

When blossoms sighed their last perfume,
And branches waved their long farewell,

One sucker crept beneath the gate,
One seed was wafted o'er the wall,
One bough sustained his trembling weight;
These left the garden, these were all.

And far o'er many a distant zone

These wrecks of Eden still are flung;

The fruits that Paradise hath known

Are still in earthly gardens hung.

Yes, by our own unstoried stream

The pink-white apple-blossoms burst That saw the young Euphrates gleam,That Gihon's circling waters nursed.

For us the ambrosial pear displays
The wealth its arching branches hold,
Bathed by a hundred summery days
In floods of mingling fire and gold.

And here, where beauty's cheek of flame
With morning's earliest beam is fed,
The sunset-painted peach may claim
To rival its celestial red.

What though in some unmoistened vale The summer leaf grow brown and sere,

Say, shall our star of promise fail

That circles half the rolling sphere,

From beaches salt with bitter spray,

O'er prairies green with softest rain,

And ridges bright with evening's ray,

To rocks that shade the stormless main?

If by our slender-threaded streams
The blade and leaf and blossom die,
If, drained by noontide's parching beams,
The milky veins of Nature dry,

See, with her swelling bosom bare,

Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West,The ring of Empire round her hair,— The Indian's wampum on her breast!