_The Soldier takes leave of our young Hero. Delivers to him a Pacquet he was entrusted with, and dies._ Next morning, when the sun had risen, and old Robert De Lancaster was attended upon, as usual, by David Williams, he enquired after the sick soldier, which he understood had been taken into the house by the order of his grand-son John. This drew from Williams a recital, much more circumstantial, than had yet been made to him of that event. He gave the very words, that John had uttered in resentment of young Owen’s inhumanity, and they were deeply felt. De Lancaster remained silent for a time, and gave no signal to the blind musician; at length he said--Williams, my mind is agitated: give me something soothing, and let it be a simple melody--I have hastily put together a kind of ballad-melody of that very sort, replied the minstrel, which occurred to me whilst reflecting upon young Mr. Owen’s want of charity to the poor soldier, and, if it is your pleasure, I will recite it to the harp--Let me hear it, said the master, and the minstrel sung as follows-- “I’m sick, said the soldier, and cover’d with scars, “Behold the sad fruit I have reap’d in your wars! “Have pity, good master, I’m feeble and old, “I’m weary, and starving with hunger and cold. “Begone from my door, and appeal to the laws, “I am not of your country, nor friend to your cause:-- “Thus answer’d the merciless squire in his pride, “And thus with disdain a young angel replied-- “What ails thee, what ails thee, thou miserly elf, “To be hoarding and hugging thy rascally pelf? “See where old father care strews his thorns in thy bed, “And terrible death waves his dart o’er thy head. “Let thy cash buy the blessing and pray’r of the poor, “And let them intercede when death comes to thy door; “They perhaps may appease that importunate pow’r, “When thy coffers can’t buy the reprieve of an hour. “Foolish man, don’t you know ev’ry grain of your gold “May give food to the hungry and warmth to the cold? “A purchase in this world shall soon pass away, “But a treasure in Heaven will never decay. “Now tell me what pleasure you reap from your hoard, “And I’ll tell you what rapture your dross might afford; “Amid numberless joys I will name only these-- “Gay days, happy nights and a conscience at ease. “Do you think, sordid wretch, when you turn a deaf ear “To the suit of the orphan that God does not hear? “Do you hope to escape from the searcher of hearts, “When the tear of the widow no pity imparts? “When the ag’d and infirm vainly put up their pray’r “For that mite, which your mass without missing could spare, “The angel of vengeance your crime will enroll “Amongst those of the demons, who murder the soul.