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It is not I would hold you.
BOTHWELL. Then farewell,
Apd keep your word to me. What! no breath more?
Keep then this kiss too with the word you gave,
And with them both my heart and its good hope
To find time yet for you and me. Farewell.
QUEEN. O God! God! God! Cover my face for mo:
I cannot heave my hand up to my head ;
Mine arms are broken. Is he got to horse ?
I do not think one can die more than this.
I did not say farewell.
KIRKALDY. My lord is gone!
Mary leaves Scotland.
QUEEN. Methinks the sand yet cleaving to my foot
Should not with no more words be shaken off,
Nor this my country from my parting eyes
Pass unsaluted; for who knows what year
May see us greet hereafter? Yet take heed,
Ye that have ears, and hear me; and take note,
Ye that have eyes and see with what last looks
Mine owo take leave of Scotland. Seven years since
Did I take leave of my fair land of France,
My joyous mother, mother of my joy.
Weeping; and now with many å woe between
And space of seven years' darkness, I depart
From this distempered and unnatural earth,
That casts me out unmothered, and go forth
On this gray sterile bitter gleaming sea
With neither tears nor laughter, but a heart
That from the softest temper of its blood
Is turned to fire and iron. 'If I live,
If God pluck pot all hope out of my hand,
If aught of all mine prosper. I that go
Shall come back to men's rain, as a flame
The wind bears down, that grows against the wind,
And grasps it with great hauds, and wins its way,
And wins its will, and triumphs ; so shall I
Let loose the fire of all my heart to feed
On those that would have quenched it. I will make
From sea to sea one furuace of the land,
Whereon the wind of war shall beat its wings
Till they wax faint with hopeless hope of rest,
And with one rain of men's rebellious blood
Extinguish the red embers. I will leave
No living soal of their blaspheming faith
Who war with monarchs ; God shall see me reign
As he sholl reign beside me. and his foes
Lle at my foot with mine; kingdoms and kings
Shall from my heart take spirit, and at my soul
Their sonls be kindled to devour for prey
The people that would make its prey of them,
And leave God's altar stripped of sacrament
As all kings' heads of sovereignty, and make
Bare as their thrones his temples: I will set
Those old things of his holiness on high
That are brought low, and break beneath my feet
These new things of men's fashion ; I will sit
And soe tears flow from eyes that saw me woep
And dust and ashes and the shadow of death
Cost from the block beneath the axe that falls
On beads that saw me humbled; I will do it,
Or bow mine own down to no royal eud,
And give my blood for theirs if God's will be,
But come back never as I now go forth
With but the hate of men to track my way,
And not the face of any friend alive.
MARY BEaton. But I will never leave you till you die.
In 1876 Mr. Swinburne published 'Erechtheus, a Tragedy,' founded
on a fragment of Euripides, and characterised by the same fine clas-
cis spirit which distinguished 'Atalanta in Calydon,' but evincing
mövre matured power and a richer imagination. The poet is young,
and we may hope for some still greater work from him.
ROBERT BUCHANAN, a native of Scotland, born in 1841, and edu-
cated at the High School and University of Glasgow, whilst still a
minor produced a volume of poems entided Undertones,' 1860. He
has since published various works and contributed largely to periodi-
cals. Residing mostly at Oban in Argyleshire, the young poet has
visited in his yacht and described the picturesque islands and scenes
of the Hebrides with true poetic taste and enthusiasm. His prose
work, 'The Land of Lorne,' 2 vols. 1871, contains some exquisite
descriptions of the sea-board of Lorne and the outlying isle, from
Mull to the Long Island. The poetical works of Mr. Buchanan, be-
sides the Undertones,' are •Idylls of Inverburn,' 1865; London
Poems,' 1866; translation of Danish Ballads,' 1866; “The Book of
Orm, a Prelude to the Epic, 1870; Napoleon Fallen, a Lyrical
Drama,' 1871; «The Drama of Kings,' 1871; &c. In 1874 Mr. Bu-
chanan commenced the publication of a collected edition of his poeti.
cal works in five volumes-a very tasteful and interesting reprint.
The Curse of Glencoe.
Alas for Clan Ian! alas for Glencoe!
The lovely are fled, and the valiant are low!
Thy rocks that look down from their cloudland of air,
But shadow destruction, or shelter despair!
No voice greets the bard from his desolate glen,
The music of mirth or the murmur of men;
No voice but the eagle's that screams o'er the slain,
Or sheep-dog that moans for his master in vain.
Alas for Clan Ian ! alas for Glencoe !
Our hearths are forsaken, our homesteads are low!
There cubs the red bill-fox, the coy mountain-deer
Disports through our gardens, and fecds without fear.
The Macdonalds of Glencoe were styled Mac-Jans. 'the race of Joha.'agreeably to
practice in use : mong
the clans, in order to distinguish them from other
Thy song, a sad remnant, faint, famished. and few,
Look down from the erags of the stern Unagh-dhu-
The voice of thy daughters with weeping and wail
Comes wild from the snows of the bleak Corri-gail.
Ye sleep pot, my kinsmen, the sleep of the brave!
The warrior fils not a warrior's grave;
No dirge was sung o'er you, no cairn heaves to tell
Where, butchered by traitors and cowards, ye fell.
Ye died not, my friends, as your forefathers died !
The sword in your grasp, and the foe at your side;
The sword was in sheath, and the bow on the wall,
And silence and slumber in hut and in hall.
They chased on your bills, in your hall did they dine,
They ate of your bread, and they drank of your wine,
The band clasped at midnight in friendship, was bued
With crimson, ere morn, in your life-streaming blood.
Glenlyon ! Glenlyon ! the false and the fell !
And Lindsay and Drummond, twin bloodhounds of hell!
On your swords, on your souls, wheresoever ye go,
Bear the burthen of blood, bear the curse of Glencoe!
Its spell be upon you hy day and by night-
Make you dotards in council, and dastards in fight-
As you knee) at the altar, or feast in the ball,
With shame to confound you, with fear to appal;
Its spell be upon you to shrink, when you see
The maid in her beauty, the babe in his glee!-
Let them glare on your vision by field and by flood,
The forms ye have slaughtered, the avengers of blood I
And bark ! from the mountains of Moray and Mar,
Round the flag of a King, rise the shours of a war-
Then, then, false clan Dermid, with wasting and woe
Comes the reckoning for blood, comes the curse of Glencoo !
Ah! through the moonlight of Autumnal years
How sweet the back-look of our first youth-world!
Freshlier and earlier the Spring hurst then:
The wild brook warbled to a sweeter tune,
Through Summer shaws that screened from brighter suns;
The berry glittered and the brown put fell
Riper and riper in the Autumn woods :
And Winter drifting on more glorious car,
Shed purer snows or shot intenser frost!
The young were merrier when our life was young:
Dropped mellower wisdom from the tongue of age,
And love and friendship were immortal things;
From fairer lips diviner music fowed ;
The song was sacred, and the poet too,
Not art, but inspiration, was his song! Of Mr. Buchanan's prose description (which is poetry in all but rbyme or form) we subjoin a specimen:
The Seasons in the Highlands. As the year passes, there is always something new to attract one who loves pature. When the winds of March have blown themselves faint, and the April heaven has ceased weeping, there comes a rich sunny day, and all at ouce the cockoo is heard telling bis baie to all the hills. Never was such a place for cuckoos in the world. The cry comes from every tuft of wood, from every hillside, from every projecting crag. The bird himself, so far from courting retirement, flutters across your path at every step, attended invariably by half a dozen excited small birds alighting a few yards off, crouches dowv for a inoment, between his slate-coloured wiugs; and fiually, rising again, crosses your path with his sovereigo cry.
O blithe new-comer, I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice. Then, as if at a given signal, the trout leaps a foot into the air from the glassy loch, the buds of the water-lily float to the surface, the lambs bleat from the green and heathery slopes ; the rooks caw from the distant rookery he cackgrouse screams from the distant bill-top; and the blackthorn begins co blossom over the nut-brown pods of the burn. Pleasant days follow, days of high white clouds and fresh winds whose wings are full of warm dew. If you are a sportsman you rejoice, for there is not a hawk to be seen anywhere, and the weasel and foumart have not yet begun to promenade the mountains. About this time more rain falls. preliininary to a burst of fine summer weather, and indumerable glow-worms light their lamps in the marshes. At last the golden days come, and all things are busy with their young. Frequently in the midsommer, there is drought for weeks together. Day after day the sky is cloudless and blue; the mountain lake sinks lower and lower, till it seems to dry up entirely; the mountain brooks dwindle to mere silver threads for the water-ousel to fly by, and the young game often die for want of water ; wbile afar off, with every red vein distinct in the burning light, without a drop of vapour to moisten his scorching crags, stands Ben Cruachan. By this time ihe hills are assuining their glory: the mysierious brachen has shot up all in a night, to cover them with a green carpet between the knolls of heather; the lichen ís pencilling the crags with most delicate silver, purple, and gold; and in all the valleys there are stretches of light yellow corn and deep-green patches of foliage. The corn-crake has come, and his cry fills the valleys. Walking on the edge of the corn-field you put up the partridges-fourteen cheepers, the size of a thrush, and the old pair to lead them. From the edge of the peat-bog the old cockgrouse rises, and if you are sharp you may see the young following the old ben through the deep heather close by. The snipe drums in the marsh. The hawk, having brought out his young among the crate of Kerrera, is hovering still as stone over the edge of the hill
. Then perchance. just at the end of July, there is a gale from the south. blowing for two dave black as Erebus with cloud and rain; then going up into the north-west, and blowing for one day with little or no rain ; and dying away at last with a cold puff from the north. All at once, as it were, the sharp sound of firing is ecboed from hill to bill; and on every mountain-top you see the sportsman climbing, with his dog ranging above and before him, the keeper following, and the gillie lagging far behind. It is the twelfth of August. Thenceforth for two months at least there are broiling days interspersed with storms and showers, and the firing continues more or less from dawn to sunset.
Day after day, as the antumn advances, the lint of the hills is getting deeper and richer; and by October, when the beech leaf yellows, and the oak leaf reddens, the dim parples and deep greens of the heather are perfect. Of all seasons in Lorne the late autumn is perhaps the most beautiful. The sea bas a deeper hue, the sky a melower light. There are long days of portherly wind, when every crag looks perfect, wrought in gray and gold, and silvered with moss, when the bigh clouds tarn luminous at the edges, when a thin ilm of hoar-frost gleams over the grass and heather, when the light burns rosy and faint over all the hills, from Morven to Cruachan, for bours before the sun goes down, Out of the ditch at the woodsida flaps the mallard, as you pass in the gloaming. and, standing by the side of the small mountain loch, you see the dock of teal rise, wheel thrice, and servie. The
hills are desolate, for the sheep are being smeared. There is a feeling of frost in the air, and Ben Cruachan has a crown of snow.
When dead of winter coines, now wondrous look the hills in their white robes ! The round red ball of the sun looks through the frosty steam. The far-off firth glea is strange and ghostly, with a sense of mysterious distance. The mountain Toch is a sheet of blue, on which you may disport in perfect solitude from morn to night, with the hills wbite on all sides, save where the broken snow shews the rusted leaves of the withered bracken. A deathly stillness and a deathlike beanty reign everywhere, and few living ihings are discernible, save the hare plunging heavily out of he form in the snow, or the rabbit scattling off in a snowy spray, or the small birds piping disconsolate on the trees and dykes.
WILLIAM MORRIS. Two poems of great length and undoubted merit, cast in the old story-telling style of Chaucer, and several interesting translations from Icelandic authors, have been produced by WILLIAM MORRIS, London, born in 1834, and educated at Exeter College, Oxford. The first work of Mr. Morris was a poem, “The Defence of Guenevere,' 1858. This was followed by 'The Life and Death of Jason,' 1867— a poem in seventeen books, presenting a series of fine pictures and bright clear narratives flowing on in a strain of pure and easy versification. The next work of the author was a still more voluminous poem. The Earthly Paradise,' in four parts, 1868–70. Certain gen. tlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troubles, and the lapse of many years, came old men to some western land, of which they had never before heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, much honoured of the strange people.' The author says of himself
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight ?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lolled by the singer of an empty day.
Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas tide such wondrous things did shew,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And throngh a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard. but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.
In the manner of this northern wizard, Mr. Morris presents the
tales of his ‘Earthly Paradise' under the aspects of the different sea-
sons of the year. The first and second parts range from March to
August, and include fourteen tales-Atalanta's Race, the Doom of
King Acrisius, Cupid and Psyche, the Love of Alcestis, the Son of
Cræsus, Pygmalion and the Image, Ogier the Dane, and others.
Part III., or September, October, and November,' contains the
Death of Paris, the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, the