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Tunlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, | To share existence with her, and to gain
That eyes so young on years like his should beam Sparks from her love's electrifying chain,
Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem."
Of that pure pride, which, less'ning to her breast
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth-how happy are the good!"

pp. 17, 18.

Symptoms still more unequivocal, however, at last make explanations necessary; and he is obliged to disclose to her the secret of his love and engagement in England. The effects of this disclosure, and all the intermediate events, are described with the same grace and delicacy. But we pass at once to the close of poor Julia's pure-hearted romance.

"That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now! The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice, Shook fragments from the rifted precipice; And whilst their falling echoed to the wind, The wolf's long howl in dismal discord join'd, While white yon water's foam was rais'd in clouds That whirl'd like spirits wailing in their shrouds : Without was Nature's elemental dinAnd Beauty died, and Friendship wept within!

"Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half, Still knew him-smil'd on him with feeble laughAnd blest him, till she drew her latest sigh!

"But lo! while Udolph's bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 'Twas tidings-by his English messenger Of Constance-brief and terrible they were," &c. pp. 35, 36.

These must suffice as specimens of the Swiss part of the poem, which we have already said we consider as on the whole the most perfect. The English portion is undoubtedly liable to the imputation of being occupied with scenes too familiar, and events too trivial, to admit of the higher embellishments of poetry. The occasion of Theodric's first seeing Constance-in the streets of London on a night of public rejoicing-certainly trespasses on the borders of this wilful stooping of the Muses' flight-though the scene itself is described with great force and beauty. "'Twas a glorious sight!

At eve stupendous London, clad in light,
Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze;
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze!
Th' illumin'd atmosphere was warm and bland,
And Beauty's groups the fairest of the land,
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room,
In open chariots pass'd, with pearl and plume.
Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien," &c.
P. 15.

The description of Constance herself, however, is not liable to this, or to any other obfection.

-"And to know her well Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell; For with affections warm, intense, refin'd, She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind, That, like Heav'n's image in the smiling brook, Celestial peace was pictur'd in her look. Ters was the brow, in trials unperplex'd, That cheer'd the sad and tranquilliz'd the vex'd. She studied not the meanest to eclipse, And yet the wisest listen'd to her lips; Ske sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will."

p. 16.

"To paint that being to a grov'ling mind Were like pourtraying pictures to the blind. 'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal,

p. 25.

All this, we think, is dignified enough for poetry of any description; but we really can tracassaries of this noble creature's unworthy not extend the same indulgence to the small relations their peevish quarrels, and her painful attempts to reconcile them-her busband's grudges at her absence on those errands—their teazing visits to him-and his vexation at their false reports that she was to spend "yet a fortnight" away from him. We object equally to the substance and the diction of the passages to which we now refer. There is something questionable even in the fatal indications by which, on approaching his home, he was first made aware of the calamity which had befallen him-though undoubtedly there is a terrible truth and impressive brevity in the passage.

"Nor hope left utterly his breast, Till reaching home, terrific omen! there The straw-laid street preluded his despairThe servant's look-the table that reveal'd His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd, Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear That he had now to suffer not to fear!"-p. 37.

We shall only add the pathetic letter in which this noble spirit sought, from her deathbed, to soothe the beloved husband she was leaving with so much reluctance.

"Theodric! this is destiny above
Our power to baffle! Bear it then, my love!
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join:
Ev'n now my suff'rings are not very great;
Shape not imagin'd horrors in my fate-

And when your grief's first transports shall sub-
I call upon your strength of soul and pride [side,
To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt
Love's glorifying tribute-not forlorn regret
I charge my name with power to conjure up
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup.
My pard'ning angel, at the gates of Heaven,
Shall look not more regard than you have given
To me: and our life's union has been clad
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had.
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast!
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?
No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest;
And let contentment on your spirit shine,
As if its peace were still a part of mine:
For if you war not proudly with your pain,
For you I shall have worse than liv'd in vain.
But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit-not despair.
I ask you by our love to promise this?
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss-
The latest from my living lips for yours?'"'
pp. 39-41.

The tone of this tender farewell must remind all our readers of the catastrophe of Gertrude; and certainly exposes the author to the charge of some poverty of invention in the structure of his pathetic narratives—▲ charge from which we are not at this moment particularly solicitous to defend him.

The minor poems which occupy the rest f

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the volume are of various character, and of course of unequal merit; though all of them are marked by that exquisite melody of versification, and general felicity of diction, which makes the mere recitation of their words a luxury to readers of taste, even when they pay but little attention to their sense. Most of them, we believe, have already appeared in occasional publications, though it is quite time that they should be collected and engrossed in a less perishable record. If they are less brilliant, on the whole, than the most exquisite productions of the author's earlier days, they are generally marked, we think, by greater solemnity and depth of thought, a vein of deeper reflection, and more intense sympathy with human feelings, and, if possible, by a more resolute and entire devotion to the cause of liberty. Mr. Campbell, we rejoice to say, is not among those poets whose hatred of oppression has been chilled by the lapse of years, or allayed by the suggestions of a base self-interest. He has held on his course through good and through bad report, unseduced, unterrified; and is now found in his duty, testifying as fearlessly against the invaders of Spain, in the volume before us, as he did against the spoilers of Poland in the very first of his publications. It is a proud thing indeed for England, for poetry, and for mankind, that all the illustrious poets of the present day-Byron, Moore, Rogers, Campbell-are distinguished by their zeal for freedom, and their scorn for courtly adulation; while those who have deserted that manly and holy cause have, from that hour, felt their inspiration withdrawn, their harpstrings broken, and the fire quenched in their censers! Even the Laureate, since his unhappy Vision of Judgment, has ceased to sing; and fallen into undutiful as well as ignoble silence, even on court festivals. As a specimen of the tone in which an unbought Muse can yet address herself to public themes, we subjoin a few stanzas of a noble ode to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots who died in resisting the late atrocious invasion.

"Brave men who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons-conquer'd not, though slain!
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom-and ye have not died in vain;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay, embrace your martyr'd lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not.
As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make
the spot!"

"Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free;
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty!
And these, even parting, scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of
Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame !

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"When o'er the green undelug'd earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign?

"And when its yellow lustre smil'd
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God!
"Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
"Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptur'd greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!
"The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs!
"How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
"As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties scem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
"For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets thy type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man."
pp. 52-55.

The beautiful verses on Mr. Kemble's re tirement from the stage afford a very re. markable illustration of the tendency of Mr. Campbell's genius to raise ordinary themes into occasions of pathetic poetry, and to invest trivial occurrences with the mantle of solemn thought. We add a few of the stanzas.

"His was the spell o'er hearts

Which only acting lends-
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can Poetry express,

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's perfect triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb."

"High were the task--too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear! But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more tonching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt ?"

"And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons's auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown--
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne!
And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause."--pp. 64-67.

We have great difficulty in resisting the temptation to go on: But in conscience we mast stop here. We are ashamed, indeed, to think how considerable a proportion of this little volume we have already transferred into our extracts. Nor have we much to say of the poems we have not extracted. "The Ritter Bann" and "Reullura" are the two longest pieces, after Theodric-but we think not the most successful. Some of the songs are exquisite-and most of the occasional poems too good for occasions.

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The volume is very small-and it contains all that the distinguished author has written for many years. We regret this certainly:but we do not presume to complain of it. The service of the Muses is a free service and all that we receive from their votaries is a free gift, for which we are bound to them in gratitude-not a tribute, for the tardy rendering of which they are to be threatened or distrained. They stand to the public in the relation of benefactors, not of debtors. They shower their largesses on unthankful heads; and disclaim the trammels of any sordid contract. They are not articled clerks, in short, whom we are entitled to scold for their idleness, but the liberal donors of immortal possessions; for which they require only the easy quit-rent of our praise. If Mr. Campbell is lazy, therefore, he has a right to enjoy his laziness, unmolested by our importunities. If, as we rather presume is the

case, he prefer other employments to the feverish occupation of poetry, he has a right surely to choose his employments-and is more likely to choose well, than the herd of his officious advisers. For our own parts, we are ready at all times to hail his appearances with delight-but we wait for them with respect and patience; and conceive that we have no title to accelerate them by our reproaches.

Before concluding, we would wish also to protect him against another kind of injustice. Comparing the small bulk of his publications with the length of time that elapses between them, people are apt to wonder that so little has been produced after so long an incuba tion, and that poems are not better which are the work of so many years-absurdly suppo sing, that the ingenious author is actually labouring all the while at what he at last produces, and has been diligently at work during the whole interval in perfecting that which is at last discovered to fall short of perfection! To those who know the habits of literary men, nothing however can be more ridiculous than this supposition. Your true drudges, with whom all that is intellectual moves most wretchedly slow, are the quickest and most regular with their publications; while men of genius, whose thoughts play with the ease and rapidity of lightning, often seem tardy to the public, because there are long intervals between the flashes! We are far from undervaluing that care and labour without which no finished performance can ever be produced by mortals; and still farther from thinking it a reproach to any author, that he takes pains to render his works worthy of his fame. But when the slowness and the size of his publications are invidiously put together in order to depreciate their merits, or to raise a doubt as to the force of the genius that produced them, we think it right to enter our caveat against a conclusion, which is as rash as it is ungenerous; and indicates a spirit rather of detraction than of reasonable judgment.

(April, 1805.)

The Lay of the Last Minstrel: a Poem. By WALTER SCOTT, Esq. 4to. pp. 318. Edinburgh. Constable and Co.: London, Longman and Co.: 1805.*

WE consider this poem as an attempt to transfer the refinements of modern poetry to the matter and the manner of the ancient

*The Novels of Sir Walter Scott have, no doubt, cast his Poetry into the shade: And it is beyond question that they must always occupy the highest and most conspicuous place in that splendid trophy which his genius has reared to his memory. Yet, when I recollect the vehement admiration it once excited, I cannot part with the belief that there is much in his poetry also, which our age should not allow to be forgotten. And it is under this impression that I now venture to reprint my

metrical romance. The author, enamoured of the lofty visions of chivalry, and partial to the strains in which they were formerly

contemporary notices of the two poems which I think produced the greatest effect at the time: the one as the first and most strikingly original of the whole series: the other as being on the whole the best; and also as having led me to make some remarks, not only on the general character of the author's genius, but on the peculiar perils of very popular poetry of which the time that has since elapsed has afforded some curious illustrations.

embodied, seems to have employed all the resources of his genius in endeavouring to recall them to the favour and admiration of the public; and in adapting to the taste of modern readers a species of poetry which was once the delight of the courtly, but has long ceased to gladden any other eyes than those of the scholar and the antiquary. This is a romance therefore, composed by a minstrel of the present day; or such a romance as we may suppose would have been written in modern times, if that style of composition had continued to be cultivated, and partaken consequently of the improvements which every branch of literature has received since the time of its desertion.

Upon this supposition, it was evidently Mr. Scott's business to retain all that was good, and to reject all that was bad in the models upon which he was to form himself; adding, at the same time, all the interest and beauty which could possibly be assimilated to the manner and spirit of his originals. It was his duty, therefore, to reform the rambling, obscure, and interminable narratives of the ancient romancers to moderate their digressions -to abridge or retrench their unmerciful or needless descriptions-and to expunge altogether those feeble and prosaic passages, the rude stupidity of which is so apt to excite the derision of a modern reader. At the same time, he was to rival, if he could, the force and vivacity of their minute and varied representations-the characteristic simplicity of their pictures of manners-the energy and conciseness with which they frequently describe great events-and the lively colouring and accurate drawing by which they give the effect of reality to every scene they undertake to delineate. In executing this arduous task, he was permitted to avail himself of all that variety of style and manner which had been sanctioned by the ancient practice; and bound to embellish his performance with all the graces of diction and versification which could be reconciled to the simplicity and familiarity of the minstrel's song.

tains should have monopolised as much poc try as might have served to immortalise the whole baronage of the empire, we are the more inclined to admire the interest and mag. nificence which he has contrived to communi. cate to a subject so unpromising.

Whatever may be thought of the conduct of the main story, the manner of introducing it must be allowed to be extremely poetical. An aged minstrel who had "harped to King Charles the Good," and learned to love his art at a time when it was honoured by all that was distinguished in rank or in genius, having fallen into neglect and misery in the evil days of the usurpation, and the more frivolous gaieties or bitter contentions of the succeeding reigns, is represented as wandering about the Border in poverty and solitude, a few years after the Revolution. In this situation he is driven, by want and weariness, to seek shelter in the Border castle of the Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth; and being cheered by the hospitality of his reception, offers to sing "an ancient strain," relating to the old warriors of her family; and after some fruitless attempts to recall the long-forgotten melody, pours forth "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," in six cantos, very skilfully divided by some recurrence to his own situation, and some complimentary interruptions from his noble auditors.

The construction of a fable seems by no means the forte of our modern poetical writers; and no great artifice, in that respect, was to be expected, perhaps, from an imitator of the ancient romancers. Mr. Scott, indeed, has himself insinuated, that he considered the story as an object of very subordinate importance; and that he was less solicitous to deliver a regular narrative, than to connect such a series of incidents as might enable him to introduce the manners he had undertaken to delineate, and the imagery with which they were associated. Though the conception of the fable is, probably from these causes, exceedingly defective, it is proper to lay a short sketch of it before our readers, both for With what success Mr. Scott's efforts have the gratification of their curiosity, and to fabeen attended in the execution of this adven-cilitate the application of the remarks we may turous undertaking, our readers will be better be afterwards tempted to offer. able to judge in the sequel: but, in the mean time, we may safely venture to assert, that he has produced a very beautiful and entertain'ng poem, in a style which may fairly be considered as original; and which will be allowed to afford satisfactory evidence of the genius of the author, even though he should not succeed in converting the public to his own opinion as to the interest or dignity of the subject. We are ourselves inclined indeed to uspect that his partiality for the strains of antiquity has imposed a little upon the severity of his judgment, and impaired the beauty of the present imitation, by directing his attention rather to what was characteristic, than to what was unexceptionable in his originals. Though he has spared too many of their faults, however, he has certainly improved upon their beauties: and while we can scarcely help regretting, that the feuds of Border chief

Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, the Lord of Branksome, was slain in a skirmish with the Cars, about the middle of the sixteenth century. He left a daughter of matchless beauty, an infant son, and a high-minded widow, who, though a very virtuous and devout person, was privately addicted to the study of Magic, in which she had been initiated by her father. Lord Cranstoun their neighbour was at feud with the whole clan of Scott; but had fallen desperately in love with the daughter, who returned his passion with equal sincerity and ardour, though withheld, by her duty to her mother, from uniting her destiny with his. The poem opens with a description of the warlike establishment of Branksome-hall; and the first incident which occurs is a dialogue between the Spirits of the adjoining mountain and river, who, after consulting the stars, de. clare that no good fortune can ever bless th

mansion till pride be quelled, and love be free." The lady, whose forbidden studies had taught her to understand the language of such speakers, overhears this conversation; and vows, if possible, to retain her purpose in spite of it. She calls a gallant knight of her train, therefore, and directs him to ride immediately to the abbey of Melrose, and there to ask, from the monk of St. Mary's aisle, the mighty book that was hid in the tomb of the wizard Michael Scott. The remainder of the first canto is occupied with the night journey of the warrior. When he delivers his message, the monk appears filled with consternation and terror, but leads him at last through many galleries and chapels to the spot where the wizard was interred; and, after some account of his life and character, the warrior heaves up the tomb-stone, and is dazzled by the streaming splendour of an ever-burning lamp, which illuminates the sepulchre of the enchanter. With trembling hand he takes the book from the side of the deceased, and hurries home with it in his bosom.

In the mean time, Lord Cranstoun and the lovely Margaret have met at dawn in the woods adjacent to the castle, and are repeating their vows of true love, when they are startled by the approach of a horseman. The lady retreats; and the lover advancing, finds it to be the messenger from Branksome, with whom, as an hereditary enemy, he thinks it necessary to enter immediately into combat. The poor knight, fatigued with his nocturnal adventures, is dismounted at the first shock, and falls desperately wounded to the ground; while Lord Cranstoun, relenting towards the kinsman of his beloved, directs his page to attend him to the castle, and gallops home before any alarm can be given. Lord Cranstoun's page is something unearthly. It is a little misshapen dwarf, whom he found one day when he was hunting, in a solitary glen, and took home with him. It never speaks, except now and then to cry "Lost! lost! lost!" and is, on the whole, a hateful, malicions little urchin, with no one good quality but his unaccountable attachment and fidelity to his master. This personage, on approaching the wounded Borderer, discovers the mighty book in his bosom, which he finds some difficulty in opening, and has scarcely had time to read a single spell in it, when he is struck down by an invisible hand, and the clasps of the magic volume shut suddenly more closely than ever. This one spell, however, enables him to practice every kind of illusion. He lays the wounded knight on his horse, and leads him into the castle, while the warders see nothing but a wain of hay. He throws him down, unperceived, at the door of the lady's chamber, and turns to make good his retreat. In passing throngh the court, however, he sees the young heir of Buccleuch at play, and, assuming the form of one of his companions, tempts him to go out with him to the woods, where, as soon as they pass a rivulet, he resumes his own shape, and bounds away. The bewildered child is met by two English archers, who make prize of him, and

carry him off, while the goblin page returns to the castle; where he personates the young baron, to the great annoyance of the whole inhabitants.

The lady finds the wounded knight, and eagerly employs charms for his recovery, that she may learn the story of his disaster. The lovely Margaret, in the mean time, is sitting in her turret, gazing on the western star, and musing on the scenes of the morning, when she discovers the blazing beacons that announce the approach of an English enemy. The alarm is immediately given, and bustling preparation made throughout the mansion for defence. The English force under the command of the Lords Howard and Dacre speedily appears before the castle, leading with them the young Buccleuch; and propose that the lady should either give up Sir William of Deloraine (who had been her messenger to Melrose), as having incurred the guilt of march treason, or receive an English garrison within her walls. She answers, with much spirit, that her kinsman will clear himself of the imputation of treason by single combat, and that no foe shall ever get admittance into her fortress. The English Lords, being secretly apprised of the approach of powerful succours to the besieged, agree to the proposal of the combat; and stipulate that the boy shall be restored to liberty or detained in bondage, according to the issue of the battle. The lists are appointed for the ensuing day; and a truce being proclaimed in the mean time, the opposite bands mingle in hospitality and friendship.

Deloraine being wounded, was expected to appear by a champion; and some contention arises for the honour of that substitution.This, however, is speedily terminated by a person in the armour of the warrior himself, who encounters the English champion, slays him, and leads his captive young chieftain to the embraces of his mother. At this moment Deloraine himself appears, half-clothed and unarmed, to claim the combat which has been terminated in his absence! and all flock around the stranger who had personated him so successfully. He unclasps his helmet, and behold! Lord Cranstoun of Teviotside! The lady, overcome with gratitude, and the remembrance of the spirits' prophecy, con. sents to forego the feud, and to give the fair hand of Margaret to that of the enamoured Baron. The rites of betrothment are then celebrated with great magnificence; and a splendid entertainment given to all the English and Scottish chieftains whom the alarm had assembled at Branksome. Lord Cranstoun's page plays several unlucky tricks during the festival, and breeds some dissension among the warriors. To soothe their ireful mood, the minstrels are introduced, who recite three ballad pieces of considerable merit. Just as their songs are ended, a super natural darkness spreads itself through the hall; a tremendous flash of lightning and peal of thunder ensue, which break just on the spot where the goblin page had been seated, who is heard to cry "Foun 1! found! found !'

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