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ping all things, fearing all things, throng the streets. The altars are blocked up with mothers praying for their sons, wives wailing for their husbands, maidens whispering vows to Mary Mother for their lovers. The town council is met in gloomy state, waiting in dread suspense the presence of the messenger from the camp whom the sentries on the walls announce as near at hand. With clamorous shouts the mob without gaze anxiously at the gates, eager for the entrance of the messenger within the city walls. Suddenly,

-the gates are opened.
Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder

Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness

Only one hard-stricken man,
And his weary steed is wounded,

And his cheek is pale and wan.
Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping hand-
God! can that be Randolph Murray,
Captain of the city band?

Round him crush the people, crying
"Tell us all-oh, tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,
Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers-children?
Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
Is it weal, or is it woe?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer,
Only with his armèd heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward
Up the city streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying by his side.

"By the God that made thee, Randolph!
Tell us what mischance hath come;"
Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the asker's voice is dumb.

He is brought before the City Council

Then in came Randolph Murray,-
And his step was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet,

And on his mailed hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning solely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him
But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
They knew so sad a messenger

Some ghastly news must bring:

And all of them were fathers,

And their sons were with the King.

The old Provost, whose last surviving son had been Randolph's standard-bearer in the fray, at length bids him speak his tidings

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud : Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groaned aloud. Then he gave the riven banner

To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying "That is all I bring ye
From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it-
It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,

As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.
Ay! ye well may look upon it—

There is more than honour there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner

Steeped in such a costly die;

It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other sbroud shall lie. Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,

Keep it as a sacred thing, For the stain ye see upon it

Was the life-blood of your King."

"No one failed him! He is keeping Royal state and semblance still; Knight and noble lie around him, Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.

Of the brave and gallant hearted, Whom ye sent with prayers away, Not a single man departed

From his monarch yesterday. Had you seen them, O my masters! When the night began to fall, And the English spearmen gathered Round a grim and ghastly wall! As the wolves in winter circle

Round the leaguer on the hearth, So the greedy foe glared upward, Panting still for blood and death. But a rampart rose before them,

Which the boldest dared not scale; Every stone a Scottish body,

Every step a corpse in mail! And behind it lay our monarch Clenching still his shivered sword: By his side Montrose and Athol, At his feet a southern lord!

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"The Execution of Montrose" is the next poem in order; a composition that, in the columns of Blackwood's Magazine, a few years since, was widely read and very much admired.

At the hands of a foreign reviewer, it has lately met with great and well-merited praise. It

would be difficult indeed for the dullest mind to the Marquis in their centre, his hands "hard write without fire on such an occasion. The bound with hempen span," where his sentence bare mention of the history of James Grahame, is read to him. The prisoner rises and speaks. "the Great Marquis" of Montrose, is scarcely inferior in heroic interest to the most glowing romances of the ancient Chroniclers. What gem of English poetry is more perfect than his famous love song,

Oh, tell me how to woo thee, love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
Though ne'er another trow me.

His successes in the field, his conduct at the council-board, his enthusiastic courage, his generous and unflagging loyalty, his moderation in victory, his heroism on the scaffold—all conspire to win our admiration and command our respect. His chivalrous comment upon his barbarous sentence of drawing and quartering, etc., is finely told below, but not less touching and interesting are the verses inscribed by his own diamond on his dungeon's pane, after the last sun which was ever to set before his mortal ken, had sank below the horizon,

"Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake-
Scatter my ashes-strew them in the air:
Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou'lt raise me with the just."

"Now by my faith as belted knight,

And by the name I bear,

And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there-
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath-
And oh, that such should be!-
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me-
I have not sought in battle field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day,
To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my father's grave.
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might.
This hand has always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still

In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower-

Give every town a limb

And God who made shall gather them:
I from
go
you to him!"

The whole of the remainder of this poem maintains an equally exalted flight, but the Review we have already alluded to, has probably made it so familiar to many of our readers that we may exercise a more discriminating spirit in selecting the next passage for extraction. Concerning the "Heart of the Bruce,"-decidedly in our opinion the flower of the volume-we No more fitting subject for the eulogium of should like to say something. At present, howBors de Ganes upon Sir Lancelot du Lac, (in ever, we must pass it over, as well as the "Bathe last chapter of the Morte D'Arthur,) can be rial March of Dundee," reserving what we would found in all the realms of history or romance. gladly say now, to a period perhaps more conso"And now, I dare to say, Sir Lancelot," said Sir nant with the taste of our readers. "The Widow Bors, "there as thou liest, thou were never of Glencoe" is another ballad of considerable matched of none earthly knight's hands; and merit. The plot is very simple; it being the cothou were the curtiest knight that ever bare ronach or lamentation of the widow and orphans shield; and thou were the truest friend to thy of Mac Iau of Glencoe, one of the Clanranald, lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou were whose whole village was destroyed, in defiance the truest lover, of a sinful man, that ever loved of the most sacred laws of hospitality, honour woman; and thou were the kindest man that and religion, on the night of February 12th, 162, ever stroke with sword; and thou were the good-"att 5 o'clock in the morning precisely," aeliest person that ever came among prece (press) cording to the strict orders given on that awful of knights; and thou were the meekest man, and occasion. The hour and season were selected the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies; by the Earl of Stair, (then Sir John Dalrymand thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in rest."

ple,) because "now," says he, “the human constitution cannot endure to be long out of houses. "The ballad," says Mr. Aytoun, "may be This is the proper season to maule them in the considered as a narrative of the transactions, cold long nights." "The winter is the only seanarrated by an aged Highlander, who had fol- son in which we are sure the Highlanders caunot lowed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to escape us, nor carry their wives, bairns and cattle his grandsons, shortly before the battle of Killie- to the mountains." From the mass of documen crankie." After telling of his betrayal and cap-tary evidence that the indignant incredulity of ture, it represents the ominous procession passing posterity brought to light against their fathers slowly onward to the Hall of Judgment, with we will select one bearing a particular relation

to the text-albeit it brings no conspicuously bright additional ray of glory, in our eyes, to "the great, good, and glorious memory of the immortal King William III., who delivered us from brass money, popery and wooden shoes." It is as follows; being dated 16th January, 1692. "William R-As for Mac Ian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they can be well distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper for public justice to extirpate that set of theirs.

W. R."

Praying for a place beside thee,

Dearer than my bridal bed;

And I'll give thee tears, my husband!
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foemen
Cry the Coronach for thee!

It will have been noticed that although the preceding poems are styled Ballads, they are not exactly couched in the simple and concise phraseology of the more ancient English ballads, as Chevy Chace, for instance. Despite the fact of And that this mandate was not foreign or re- the present measure having been chosen by Mr. pugnant to the spirit of his counsellors, we read Macaulay for some of his noble "lays of Ancient in a letter of Secretary Dalrymple's, on the fact Rome," we prefer decidedly the less ornate and of its application, that he greatly rejoices there- labored style in which Tickell, Goldsmith and at "It is a great work of charity to be exact Percy have shown themselves such proficients. in rooting out that damnable sect." Charity did Perhaps, however, this style is better adapted to he say! Such charity as honest old Izaak per- the loftier rehearsal of grand deeds of martial haps entertained towards his frog, which he put fame. Of a similar tenor to its predecessors, tenderly upon his hook, "as though he loved it!" and, of all, most to our taste, is the "Island of But why multiply words? The subsequent his- the Scots"-the next poem in the book. It must tory of that dreadful night is, alas! matter of be premised that after William was firmly seated history—it is but too well known; a history on the throne, the exiled adherents of James saw which, as a modern writer well observes, is scarce-all present hopes of his restoration at an end, and ly paralleled in atrocity, in all the annals of In- resolved no longer to be a useless burthen on the dian warfare. The late inhuman ravages of the purse of a Master whose little all was chiefly Camanches in Texas would appear in a favora- composed of the voluntary remittances of his ble light when placed side by side with the re- secret supporters in Britain. Accordingly, after volting details of the deeds of a civilized army a stubborn opposition on the part of James to under the orders of "a Great Protestant deliv- their self-devotedness, they formed themselves erer" towards their fellow Christians and fellow into a company of soldiers, and enlisted under countrymen and even kinsmen. 'Tis in these the banners of Louis XIV. Previously to departstrains a widow mourns her fallen lord, foully slain in a moment of profound peace, by the hands of those who had tasted of his salt and had been sheltered at his fireside, which even among the wild Bedouins of the Desert would have been armed in his defence;—and promises vengeance for his manes. There is something very stern and majestic in the conclusion.

I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field-

I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble

Died around the dauntless Græme!
But I will not wrong thee, husband!

With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body,

Stricken by the traitor, lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten;
Other hearts be rent in twain,
Ere the heathbells on thy hillock

Wither in the autumn rain.

Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,

ing for the wars, they assembled for the purpose
of bidding adieu for the last time to him whom
they persisted in viewing as their rightful sove-
reign. The scene that morning in the Gardens
of Saint-Germain's must have been a touching
one indeed. Well might James burst into tears
at the sight of such a number of the best, the
bravest, the most nobly born of his realm-men
into whose laps Fortune had seemed to pour her
choicest gifts of Wealth and Rank-voluntarily
forfeiting home, friends, fortune, even their an-
cestral name itself, rather than abandon their
principles. What noble sentiments are these-
what examples worthy of all imitation! Such
was the spirit that cheered the Apostles at the
Stake-such was the flame that guided the way
of our Fathers, when faint and weary, they were
to be tracked across the winter's snow and ice by
the bloody prints of their bare feet, while fight-
ing Freedom's battles. Justly says the bard,

Perish wealth, and power, and pride!
Mortal boons, by mortals given;
But let Constancy abide,

Constancy's the gift of Heaven!

In bidding farewell to this glorious little band, James said "Gentlemen, my own misfortunes

are not so nigh my heart as yours. It grieves him. The Scotch Captain addresses them, conme beyond what I can express, to see so many cluding with these words

brave and worthy gentlemen, who had once the prospect of being the chief officers in my army, reduced to the station of private sentinels. Nothing but your loyalty, and that of a few of my subjects in Britain, who are forced from their allegiance by the Prince of Orange, and who, I know, will be ready on all occasions to serve me and my distressed family, could make me willing to live. The sense of what all of you have done and undergone for your loyalty, hath made so deep an impression upon my heart, that, if it ever please God to restore me, it is impossible I can be forgetful of your services and sufferings. Neither can there be any posts in the armies of my dominions but what you have just pretensions to. As for my son, your Prince, he is of your own blood, a child capable of any impression, and, as his education will be from you, it is not supposable that he can forget your merits. At your own desires you are now going a long march far distant from me. Fear God and love one another. Write your wants particularly to me, and depend upon it always to find me your parent and King."*

Under the Marshal de Noailles, and other leaders, this company of heroes saw such effectual service, that in 1714, but sixteen of their number were living. The ballad before us tells of one of their feats, when, under General Stirk, 16,000 Germans attempted to pass the Rhine. The Marquis de Sell, at the head of 4000 French, guarded the opposite shore. A small island, in the middle of the river, was in spite of all his exertions, seized by the Germans, and united immediately by a bridge to their main camp. Of course, this position caused the greatest uneasiness to the French, but it seemed impossible to dislodge them. In this juncture, "a swarthy man," Captain John Foster, the leader of the Scots, volunteers his company as a forlorn hope to storm the isle, on which the enemy had now thrown up heavy batteries.

"I've seen a wilder stream ere now
Than that which rushes there;

I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet
And never thought to dare.

If German steel be sharp and keen,
Is ours not strong and true?

There may be danger in the deed,

But there is honor too!"

The old Marquis de Sell gives a joyful assent, upon condition that his men are ready to follow

* This scene is certainly in very striking contrast with the flight of James a short time before from his palace at Whitehall, his throwing the Great Seal into the Thames, and his subsequent vacillation on the approach of William [ED. MESS.

"Come, brothers! let me name a spell

Shall rouse your souls again,
And send the old blood bounding free

Through pulse, and heart, and vein!
Call back the days of bygone years—

Be young and strong once more!
Think yonder stream, so stark and red,
Is one we've crossed before.

Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!
Rise up on either hand-
Again upon the Garry's banks,

On Scottish soil we stand!
Again I see the tartans wave,
I hear the trumpets ring;
Again I hear our leader's call-

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Upon them, for the King?
Stayed we behind that glorious day

For roaring flood or linn?
The soul of Græme is with us still—
Now, brothers, will ye in?"

No stay-no pause. With one accord
They grasped each other's hand,
And plunged into that angry flood

That bold and dauntless band.
High flew the spray above their heads,

Yet onward still they bore,

Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell
And shot and cannon roar.
"Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear

Since earth and sea began
Was never such a daring deed
Essayed by mortal man!"

"The current's strong-the way is long-
They'll never reach the shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst,
They waver in the line!

Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,
And whelm them in the Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swaying
When the blast is piping shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury

Down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches,

Striving with the tempest's shock;
How they keep their place of vantage
Cleaving firmly to the rock!
Even so the Scottish warriors

Held their men against the river

One word was spoke among them,
And through the ranks it spread-
"Remember our dead Claverhouse!"
Was all the Captain said.
Then, sternly bending forward,

They struggled on awhile,
Until they cleared the heavy stream
And rushed toward the isle.

The German heart is stout and true,
The German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back
Where armed foemen throng.

But never had they faced in field
So stern a charge before,
And never had they felt the sweep
Of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche
Adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs
Of rough and rapid Rhine-
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven
Than came the Scottish band,
Right up against the guarded trench
And o'er it, sword in hand.

In vain their leaders forward press-
They meet the deadly brand!
O lovely island of the Rhine,

Where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands,

By those strong reapers thrown?
What saw the winter moon that night,
As, struggling through the rain,
She poured a wan and fitful light

On marsh, and stream, and plain?
A dreary spot with corpses strown,
And bayonets glittering round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat,
A bare and battered mound;
And one huge watchfire's kindled pile,
That sent its quivering glare
To tell the leaders of the host

The conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreath
For those who fought so well?
And did they honor those who lived,
And weep for those who fell?

What needs of thanks was given to them
Let aged annals tell.

Why should they twine the laurel-wreathWhy crown the cup with wine?

It was not Frenchmen's blood that flowed So freely on the Rhine

A stranger band of beggared men

Had done the venturous deed:
The glory was to France alone,
The danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks
From foreign prince or peer?
What virtue had such honied words

The exile's hearts to cheer?

What mattered it, that men should vaunt

And loud and fondly swear,

That higher feat of chivalry
Was never wrought elsewhere?

They bore within their breasts the grief-
That fame can never heal-
The deep, unutterable woe
Which none save exiles feel.

Their hearts were yearning for the land
They ne'er might see again-

For Scotland's high aud heathered hills,
For mountain, loch, and glen-
For those who haply lay at rest
Beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf
Where they would gladly be!

There-if our readers do not thank us for this long extract, we are much deceived. Perhaps it is but the stirring dregs of the " "perfervidum

ingenium Scotorum," as old Buchanan has it—in our system that makes us warm so in favor of aught that relates to "the land of the mountain and the flood," but certes, the preceding lines make us to prick up our ears like a warhorse at the braying of "a silver trumpet with a martial

sound."

"Of "Charles Edward at Versailles," we have little to say. It is inferior to much of its kindred versification. There is something rather bald in the very first line-but the next ballad, "the Old Scottish Cavalier," is magnificent-sufficient in itself to redeem a whole volume of balderdash. It came out some years ago in Blackwood, and well do we remember the effect it produced upon the mind of one from whose lips we have often since heard it sung-in sooth, it is a gem of the first water; such a strain as this must have been the famous war-song of Roland, chaunting which Roger de Taille-fer charged the host on the field of Hastings, and died with its murmurs on his lips.

If we give this song entire, it is the last offence of the kind we shall commit in this paper, and, certainly, the sin will be no heinous one. Although the air is a parody, the subject of the song is matter of real life. Lord Pitsligo is well understood to have been the hero; although the denouement is more akin to the fate of Viscount Strathallan, than of Lord Pitsligo, who was a nobleman the most conspicuous of the Low Country, for his virtue, learning, and social influence.

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

I.

Come, listen to another song,

Should make your heart beat high,

Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;—
It is a song of olden time,

Of daya long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish Cavalier,
All of the olden time!

II.

He kept his castle in the North,
Hard by the thundering spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they.

And not a man of all that clan

Had ever ceased to pray

For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away

From the steadfast Scottish Cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

III.

His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,

Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names.

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