Mr. Scott pleases,) on those who without his power dare to follow his transgressions. His "exemplar vitiis imitabile" has indeed largely contributed to humble and to corrupt our national taste in poetry.

The noble little party proceed on their wanderings in the fourth canto; and in their voyage among the western * islands they touch on all (and many more than all) of the scenes that have been illustrated by the faithful pen of Martin, or the less accurate but inimitably energetic graver of Johnson. select the sketch of Staffa:

The shores of Mull on the eastward lay †,
And Ulva dark and Colonsay,

And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round.
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturb'd repose
The cormorant had found,
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And welter'd in that wond'rous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolong'd and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,

"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!

Thy humble powers that stately shrine.

Task'd high and hard-but witness mine !".
Merrily, merrily goes the bark,'-

We

and so also "merrily, merrily goes the bard," in a succession of merriment, which, like Dogberry's tediousness, he finds it in

*Much of the materials for this voyage seem to have been gleaned from the author's own excursions in that direction; which, in the shape of extracts from a MS. journal, contribute greatly to enliven

the notes.

Apropos of this species of lame and halt versification, which abounds in The Lord of the Isles:' it is transplanted from the "Wallace" of Miss Holford, and had better have been left among the weeds of its native flower-garden.

his

his heart to bestow wholly and entirely on us, through page after page or wave after wave of his voyage. We could almost be tempted to believe that he was on his return from Skye when he wrote this portion of his poem ;-from Skye, the depositary of the mighty cup of royal Somerled,' as well as of Rorie More's' comparatively modern horn;'-and that, as he says himself of a minstrel who celebrated the hospitalities of Dunvegan-castle in that island, it is pretty plain, that when this tribute of poetical praise was bestowed, the horn of Rorie More had not been inactive.' (See notes to canto second, p. 38.)

In the corresponding note to the poetical picture of Staffa in the text, the author disclaims any intention of dwelling upon a wonder so often described, and yet so incapable of being understood by description :' but he proceeds to give a brief outline of the prodigy; and we confess that, to our apprehension, he has clearly made out his case, by proving, if this be a specimen of the descriptions of Staffa, that they are indeed utterly unintelligible. Our readers may be gifted with keener penetration: they will find the passage at the 98th page of the notes; which notes have much entertaining and curious matter in them, but are sadly overloaded with extracts from Barbour's Metrical History of "The Bruce ;" and with other stuff, "perilous stuff" we must call it, of which we heartily wish our tuneful antiquary would "purge his cleansed bosom." We particularly allude to a long and dull quotation from Rymer's Fodera; and to a modernization of a good-for-nothing discovery of the indefatigable' Mr. Ritson, in the shape of an old ballad. Not one reader in a thousand is interested, we believe, in such republications; and we deem the case of that one so truly lamentable, that we regard with a species of compassionate amazement the measures which are here taken to minister to his unhappy distemper.

We have, however, " tarried all too long" in our digression from The Lord of the Isles.' Yet that lord himself, selon les règles of Mr. Scott's compositions, being the hero, is not the first person in the poem. The attendant here is always in white muslin, and Tilburina herself in white linen. Still, among the Deutero-proti (or second best) of the author, Lord Ronald holds a respectable rank. He is not so mere a magic-lanthorn figure, once seen in bower and once in field, as Lord Cranstoun; he far exceeds that tame rabbit boiled to rags, without onion or other sauce, De Wilton; and, although he certainly falls infinitely short of that accomplished swimmer, Malcolm Græme, yet he rises proportionably above the red-haired Redmond. Lord Ronald, indeed, bating his intended marriage with one woman while he loves another, is a very noble fellow; and, were he not so totally eclipsed by "The Bruce," he would

would have served very well to give a title to any octosyllabic epic, were it even as vigorous and poetical as the present. Nevertheless, it would have been just as proper to call Virgil's divine poem "The Anchiseid," as it is to call this The Lord of the Isles:' to all intents and purposes the aforesaid quarto is, and ought to be, "The Bruce." Moreover, we do not see any reason that should prevent us from entering a protest, while we notice Mr. Scott's inferior heroes, against his secone heroines. In the first place, we totally condemn the practice of ladies in male attire trudging about with gentlemen; and, to be serious on a serious subject, we must earnestly expostulate with a writer of so much genius for countenancing with the dangerous lustre of talent so "low-thoughted" a notion as that of woman not only fully returning with affection the scorn which she experiences from any man, but following that man in a masculine and degraded dress, till his slowly awakened tenderness deigns to give her the fruits of compassion or of repentance rather than of love. We hasten from so odious a subject; hoping that what we have said may be felt (as we are sure it ought to be) in every interested quarter.

a

Not only is the Edith of this story greatly inferior to the lady Isabel in moral dignity, and in force and feeling of character, but it will be recollected that the reader of "Marmion" was strongly and in spite of himself engaged by pity and every softening sensation in favour of the guilty Constance: a tribute this, assuredly, to the poetical energy of the writer, of no common value: but whether of equal value to the taste and tone of his compositions on ethical points of the highest consequence may admit of a doubt. It is not here our business to recur to the violent and atrocious characters on whom he has generally chosen to fix our chief interest, in his popular and therefore important works: but the situation and circumstances of the heroine of his present poem demanded reprehension; particularly as we cannot help entertaining a sort of undefinable notion that this is almost the latest opportunity which we shall have for pointing out the luminous or the dark passages of the first as well as the last of the minstrels.. -We must return for

a moment

To Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore *
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar,

And lonely Colonsay;

-Scenes sung by him who sings no more!
His bright and brief career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains;

Tortured' shore is a catachresis of no trifling magnitude: but it would be vain to attempt a specification of all these violences of expression.

Quench'd

Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore

Has Leyden's cold remains !';

and now we must proceed rapidly with our voyagers. Ever the breeze blows merrily,

But the galley ploughs no more the sea :*

they land on a wild and mountainous coast, which they could not indeed well avoid doing in these regions; and, after some parley concerning their poor mute companion, (in discovering whom to be Edith, we assure our readers we have betrayed no secret that is kept by the poet himself,) Bruce blows his horn, and the following animated scene is introduced from the historical tradition :

To land King Robert lightly sprung,
And thrice aloud his bugle rung
With note prolong'd and varied strain,
Till bold Ben-ghoil replied again.
Good Douglas then, and De la Haye,
Had in a glen a hart at bay,

And Lennox cheer'd the laggard hounds,

When waked that horn the green-wood bounds.
"It is the foe!" cried Boyd, who came

In breathless haste with eye on flame,-
"It is the foe! Each valiant lord

Fling by his bow, and grasp his sword!".
"Not so," replied the good Lord James,
"That blast no English bugle claims.
Oft have I heard it fire the fight,
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight.
Dead were my heart, and deaf mine ear,
If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear!
Each to Loch-Ranza's margin spring;
That blast was winded by the King!"
Fast to their mates the tidings spread,
And fast to shore the warriors sped.
Bursting from glen and green-wood tree,
High waked their loyal jubilee !
Around the royal Bruce they crowd,
And clasp'd his hands, and wept aloud.
Veterans of early fields were there,
Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair,
Whose swords and axes bore a stain
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane;

And boys, whose hands scarce brook'd to wield

The heavy sword or bossy shield.

Men too were there, that bore the scars

Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars,

At

;

At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight,
Teyndrum's dread rout and Methven's flight;
The might of Douglas there was seen,
There Lennox with his graceful mien
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded knight;
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light;
The heir of murder'd De la Haye,
And Boyd the grave,
and Seton gay.

Around their King regain'd they press'd,
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him to their breast,
And young and old, and serf and lord,
And he who ne'er unsheath'd a sword,
And he in many a peril tried,
Alike resolved the brunt to bide,
And live or die by Bruce's side!
Oh, War! thou hast thy fierce delight,
Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright!
Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield
Fly dazzling o'er thy battle-field!
Such transports wake, severe and high,
Amid the pealing conquest-cry;
Scarce less, when after battle lost,
Muster the remnants of a host,
And as each comrade's name they tell,
Who in the well-fought conflict fell,
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye,
Vow to avenge them or to die!-
Warriors!-and where are warriors found,
If not on martial Britain's ground?
And who, when waked with note of fire,
Love more than they the British lyre?
Know ye not,-hearts to honour dear!
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe,
At which the heart-strings vibrate high,
And wake the fountains of the eye?
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace
Of tear is on his manly face,
When, scanty reliques of the train
That hail'd at Scone his early reign,
This patriot band around him hung,
And to his knees and bosom clung?
Blame ye the Bruce?-his brother blamed,
But shared the weakness, while ashamed,
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd,
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.

'Tis morning and the convent bell
Long time had ceased its matin knell,
Within thy walls, Saint Bride!

An aged sister sought the cell
Assign'd to Lady Isabel,

And hurriedly she cried,

"Haste, gentle Lady.! haste. -?

Here