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 astranc;
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 beɛ
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?
My 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 brie
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,
And fever's fire was in his eye;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Checker'd his swarthy brow and cheeks.

"Hark, minstrel! I have heard thee plas
With measure bold, on festal day,
In yon lone isle-again where ne'er
Shall harper play, or warrior hear!
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's race our victory.

Strike it! and then (for well thou canst)
Free from thy minstrel spirit glanced,
Fling me the picture of the fight,
When met my clan the Saxon might "

*

IV.

BATTLE OF BEAL AN DUINK.

The minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Ben-venue,
For, ere he parted, he would say,
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray.
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,

Upon the eyrie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;
I'he small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

s it the thunder's solemn sound

That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

I see the dagger-crest of Mar,

I see the Moray's silver star Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,

*

That up the lake comes winding far!

*

eir light-arm d archers far and near
Survey'd the tangled ground,
Their centre ranks, with pikes and spear,
A twilight forest frown'd;
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalia crown'd.

No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,
Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,
That shadow'd o'er their road.
Their va'ward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy trace of living thing,

Save when hey stirr'd the roe;

The host moves rike a deep sea-wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave.
High swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws,
And here the horse and spearman pause
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer men.

XVII.

At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fel,
Had peal'd the banner cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear.

For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle crv
And plaids and bonnets waving hign
And broadswords flashing to the sky
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued ;

Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen's twilight wood?

Down, down," cried Mar, "you ances down'
Bear back both friend and foe !"

Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay level'd low!

And closely shouldering, side by side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.

rofessor Wilson ranks Scott far above Byron, in peint 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 humaL

life

The genius of Sir Walter Scott, it will not be denied

66

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, he cognomened by those that choose it, the Ariosto of the North-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 se lections. 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 literatura

AMERICAN LITERATUAB

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 ;
By strongest demonstration shown,
Evince that nothing can be known;
Take arguments convey'd by doubt,
On Voltaire's trust, or go without.
'Gainst Scripture rail in modern lore,
As thousand fools have rail'd before;