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“ My oath and knightly faith are broke,” these were

the words he said, “ Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take

“ O father, see yonder! see yonder !” he says;
“ My boy, upon what doest thou fearfully gaze?"-

0, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud."
No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.”

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thy vassal's head.”

my heir,

XLII.

(The Erl-King speaks.) The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say, “ O come and go with me, thou loveliest child; “le gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelve- By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; months and a day;

My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.”

sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for “O, father, my father, and did you not hear

The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear ?”—

“ Be still, my heart's darling-my child, be at ease; XLIII.

It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees.” “ The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old,

Erl-King. Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually “ O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? were told;

My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy; But blessings on the warder kind that oped my She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, castle gate,

And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child." For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.”

“O father, my father, and saw you not plain,
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the

rain?”—
“O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;

It was the grey willow that danced to the moon."
The Erl-King.

Erl-King.
GOETHE.

“O come and go with me, no longer delay, (The Erl-King is a goblin thut haunts the Black Forest Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.”_

“ O father ! O father! now, now keep your hold, in Thuringia.To be read by a candle particularly long in the snuff:)

The Erl-King has seized me—his grasp is so cold !” O, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild ? Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild, It is the fond father embracing his child;

Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead !

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

1 1797

TO Aliss Christian Rutherford.— I send a goblin tempting a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by story. You see I have not altogether lost the faculty of Lewis.

W.S.”-Life, vol. I. p. 378. rhyuning. I assure you there is no small impudence in at

END OF BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN

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* Scott's autobiography tells us that his translations in verse from Horace and Virgil were often approved by Dr. Adams, [Rector of the High School, Edinburgh.) One of these little pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his mother; it was found folded up in a cover, inscribed by the old lady _My Walter's first lines, 1782.”—LOCKHART, Life of Scott, vol. i., p. 129.

On the Setting Sun.

1783.

In awful ruins Ætna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing fire;
At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost :
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While Ætna thundering from the bottom boils.

Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display

Their great Creator's praise ;
Then let the short-lived thing call'd man,
Whose life's comprised within a span,

To him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,

And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,

Who tinged these clouds with gold !!

On a Thunder Storm.

The Violet.

1783.- Ær. 12.

1797. “ In Scott's Introduction to the Lay, he alludes to an original effusion of these schoolboy days,' prompted by a thunder-storm, which he says " was It appears from the Life of Scott, vol. i., p. 333, that much approved of, until a malevolent critic sprung up these lines, first published in the English Minstrelsy

1“ It must, I think, be allowed that these lines, though of Cowley at the same period, show, nevertheless, praiseworthy the class to which the poet himself modestly ascribes them, dexterity for a boy of twelve." -Life of Scoit, vol. i., p. 131. and not to be ared with the efforts of Pope, still less of

1810, were written in 1797, on occasion of the Poet's When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, disappointment in love.

Must leave his channel dry;

And vainly o'er the limpid flood
The violet in her green-wood bower,

The angler guides bis fly;
Where birchen boughs with bazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

If chance by Bothwell's lovely brses
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

A wanderer thou hast been,

Or hid thee from the summer's blaze
Though fair her gems of azure hue,

In Blantyre's bowers of green,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

Full where the copsewood opens wild
More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining.

Thy pilgrim step hath staid,

Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled, The summer sun that dew shall dry,

O’erlook the verdant glade;
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye

And many a tale of love and fear
Remain’d the tear of parting sorrow.

Hath mingled with the scene
Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear,

And Bothwell's bonny Jean.

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The following fragment of a ballad written at Bothwell Castle, in the autumn of 1799, was first (2.) The Shepherd's Tale.' printed in the Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. ii., p. 28. When fruitful Clydesdale’s apple-bowers

1799. Are mellowing in the noon, When sighs round Pembroke's ruin’d towers “ANOTHER imperfect ballad, in which he had meant The sultry breath of June;

to blend together two legends familiar to every reader Sir Aylmer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, Edward the tle, the ruins of which attest the magnificence of the invaFinst's Guvernor of Scotland, usually resided at Bothwell Cas- der.-ED.

2 Life of Scott, vol. ii., p. 31.

of Scottish history and romance, has been found in the same portfolio, and the bandwriting proves it to be of the same early date.-LOCKHART, vol. ii., p. 30.

Mix'd with the seafowl's shrilly moallen

And ocean’s bursting roar!

*

*

« O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride,

Even in his mightiest day, As bold he strides through conquest'o tide,

O stretch him on the clay!

And ne'er but once, my son,

he

says. Was yon sad cavern trod, In persecution's iron days,

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When the land was left by God.

From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red,

A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turn’d his head,

As by fits the night wind blew;

For trampling round by Cheviot edge

Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge

The death-shot flash'd between.

The moonbeams through the misty shower

On yon dark cavern fell; Through the cloudy night the snow gleam'd white,

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.

“ Yon cavern dark is rough ard rude,

And cold its jaws of snow;
But more rough and rude are the men of blood,

That hunt my life below!

“ Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,

Was hewn by demon's hands;
But I had lourd' melle with the fiends of bell,

Than with Clavers and his band.”

He heard the deep-mouth'd bloodhound bark,

He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,

And downward sped his way.

Now faintly down the winding path

Came the cry of the faulting hound, And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath

Was lost in hollow sound.

He threw him on the flinted floor,

And held his breath for fear; He rose and bitter cursed his foes,

As the sounds died on his ear.

“ O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,

For Scotland's wandering band;
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword,

And sweep him from the land !

:(

Forget not thou thy people's groans irom dark Dunnotter's tower,

1 Lourd; 1. c. liefer- rather.

“In ancient days when English bands Sore ravaged Scotland fair,

ZR

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