My LADY OF THE LAKE. .XIII. As the tall ship, whose lofty prow Shall never stem the billows more, Deserted by her gallant band, Amid the breakers lies astrand; So, on his couch, lies Roderic Dhu' And oft his fever'd limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides Lie rocking in th' advancing tides, That shake her frame to ceaseless beat, Yet can not heave her from her seat; Oh! how unlike her course at sea! Or his free step on hill and lea! Soon as the minstrel he could scan, "What of the lady? of my clan? mother?-Douglas?-tell me all! Have they been ruin'd in my fall? Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? Yet speak-speak boldly-do not fear." (For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was choked with grief and terror too.) "Who fought? who fled?-Old man, be brief: Some might, for they had lost their chief. Who basely live ?-who bravely died?" "O, calm thee, chief!" the minstrel cried, "Ellen is safe."-" For that, thank Heaver! "And hopes are for the Douglas given; The Lady Margaret too is well, And, for thy clan-on field or fell, Has never harp of minstrel told Of combat fought so true and bold; Thy stately pine is yet unbent, Though many a goodly bough is rent." XIV. The chieftain rear'd his form on high, Strike it! and then (for well thou canst) Fling me the picture of the fight, * XV. BATTLE OF BEAL AN DUINE. Upon the eyrie nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star * XVI. * eir light-arm d archers far and near Their centre ranks, with pikes and spear, Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, * There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when hey stirr'd the roe; The host moves ike a deep sea-wave, XVII. At once there rose so wild a yell For life! for life! their flight they ply- Before that tide of flight and chase, Down, down," cried Mar, "you ances down' Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown And closely shouldering, side by side, * * * * Professor Wilson ranks Scott far above Byron, in point e genius. His remarks, in substance, are as follows: We shall never say that Scott is Shakspeare; but we shall say that he has conceived and created-you know the meaning of these words-a far greater number of char acters of real living, flesh-and-blood human beings-and that more naturally, truly, and consistently, than Shakspeare, who was sometimes transcendently great in pictures of the passions; but out of their range, which surely does not comprehend all rational being, was-nay, do not threaten to murder us-a confused and irregular delineator of humar life The genius of Sir Walter Scott, it will not be denied is pretty national, and so are the subjects of all his noblest works, be they poems, or novels and romances by the author of " Waverley." Up to the era of Sir Walter, living people had some vague, general, indistinct notion about dead people mouldering away to nothing centuries ago, in regular kirk-yards and chance burial-places, "mang muirs and mosses many O," somewhere or other in that difficultly distinguished and very debateable district called the Borders. All at once he touched their tombs with a divining rod, and the turf streamed out ghosts. Some in woodman' dresses-most in warrior's mail-green archers leaped for with yew bows and quivers, and giants stalked, shaking spears. The gray chronicler smiled, and, taking up his pen, wrote in lines of light the annals of the chivalrous and heroic days of auld feudal Scotland. The nation then, for the first time, knew the character of its ancestors; for those were not spectres-not they, indeed-nor phantoms of the brain-but gaunt flesh and blood, or glad and glorious; baseborn cottage-churls of the olden time, because Scottish, became familiar to the love of the nation's heart, and so to its pride did the high-born lineage of palace kings. His themes in prose or numerous verse are still "knights, and lords, and mighty earls," and their lady-loves-chiefly Scottishof kings that fought for fame or freedom-of fatal Flodden and bright Bannockburn-of the Deliverer. If that be not national to the teeth, Homer was no Ionian, Tyrtæus not sprung from Sparta, and Christopher North a Cockney. Let Abbotsford, then, be cognomened by those that choose it, the Ariosto of the Iorth-we shall continue to call him plain, simple, immortal Sir Walter. There is a long catalogue of other poets, of more or less note, for an account of whom we can, with great pleasure, only refer to Chambers's "History of English Literature," from which we have freely selected and copied, in making out these sketches and selections. To the same work would we refer the student for satisfactory and able record of the Prose-writers of Great Britain that have flourished since the beginning of English literature. PART V I I. AMERICAN LITERATURE. PAR CHAPTER I. AMERICAN POETS SECTION I. POETS OF OUR REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. [It is suggested to teachers, in the use of the Seventh as well as the Sixth Part, to examine their pupils upon the characteristics of each author, and to require them to read, before their class, the specimens of each poet with a view to literary criticism.] MR. GRISWOLD, in his Collection of American Poetry, remarks that before the Revolution, before the time when the spirit of freedom began to influence the national character, very little verse worthy of preservation was produced in America, and that the POETRY OF THE COLONIES Was without originality, energy, feeling, or correctness of diction. (1.) Of the Revolutionary times PHILIP FRENEAU was the most distinguished poet-the room-mate, while in Princeton College, of James Madison. (2.) JOHN TRUMBULL, LL.D., born in Connecticut, 1750, died in 1831, having distinguished himself as the author of M'Fingal, a burlesque poem, directed against the enemies of American liberty. It is written in Hudibrastic strain, and is said to be the best imitation of the great satire of Butler that was ever written. He was author of another poem written in the same style entitled the "Progress of Dullness," which was eagerly read during the Revolution. From his description of the fop of those days we extract the following lines: "Then, lest religion he should need, Of pious Hume he'll learn his creed; 181 poe ΠΟΥ and ed fiel sple SOL com Jum the pie of |