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Now, God forbid ! Marlotes, and Mary, his dear mother,
That I should leave the faith of Christ, and bind me to another ;
For women-I've one wife in France, and I'll wed no more in Spain ;
I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain.'
Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say,
And all for ire commanded he should be led away ;
Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vanlt to lie,
With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.
With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plight
Might well express his helplessness, doom'd never more to fight.
Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore,
Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more.
Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom
To see God's day light bright and clear, instead of dungeon-gloom ;
Three times alone they bring him out, like Sampson long ago,
Before the Moorish rabble-rout, to be a sport and show.
On three high-feasts they bring hin forth, a spectacle to be,
The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity,
And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers,
And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers.
Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are come and gone,
And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist, John;
Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due,
And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew.
Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear,
Below the Moorish knights must ride, and pierce it with the spear ;
But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain,
No Moorish shaft so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain.
Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail,
The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale;
And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town,
Nor child should suck, nor man should eat, till the mark was tumbled down.
The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound,
Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound.
Now, help me, God!! the captive cries, what means this din so loud ?
0, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud !
O, is it that some Pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter

, wed,
And that they bear my scorned Fair in triumph to his bed ?
Or is it that the day is come, one of the hateful three,
When they, with trumpet, fife, and drụm, make Heathen game of me?",
These words the jailor chanced to hear, and thus to him he said,

These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed,
Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the right,
Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's sight,
• This is the foyful morning of John the Baptist's day,
When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's way;
But now our king commands that none his banquet shall begin,
Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prize do wir."
Then out and spake Gåarinos," O! soon each man should feed,
Were I but mourited once again on my own gallant steed.
:0! were I mounted as of old, and harness'd cap-a-pee,
Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold, whate'er its price may be.

Give me my grey, old Trebizond, so be he is not dead,
All gallantly caparison'd, with mail on breast and head,
And give me the lance I brought from France, and if I win it pot,
My life shall be the forfeiture I'll yield it on the spot."
The jailor wonder'd at his words. Thus to the knight said he,
• Seven weary years of chains and gloom have little bumbled thee ;
There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might bear;
An' if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the king repair,"

1

The Jaltor put his mantle on, and came unto the king,
He found him sitting on the throne, within his listed ring;
Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin,
How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's prize to win,
That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant grey,
And arm'd with the lavoe he bore on the Roncesvalles' day,
What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce at a blow,
Or give with joy his life blood fierce, at Marlotes' feet to flow.
Much marvelling, then said the king, Bring Sir Guarinos forth,
And in the Grange go seek ye for his old grey steed of worth ;
His arms are rusty on the wall.seven years have gone, I judge,
Since that strong horse has bent his force to be a carrion drudge.
• Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lord
Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty sword ;
And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die,
So, jailor, gird his harness on, and bring your champion pigh,'
They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasp'd,
And they've
barr'd the helm on his visage pale, and his hand

the lance hath grasp.com
And they have caught the old grey steed, the horse of Trebizond,
And he stands bridled at the gate.once more caparison'd.
When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly laugh'd the king,
For the horse he pranced and caper'd, and furiously did fling :
But Guarinos whisper'd in his ear, and look'd into his face,
Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a calm and gentle grace,
Oh ! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree,
And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee ;
Again the heathen laugh'd aloud,-- All hail, sir knight," quoth he,

Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see.
With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode,
Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down bis turban troda
Now ride, now ride, Guarinos_nor lance nor rowel spare

Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life. The land of France lies there! We have now done enough to make sire to possess in the shape of an Eng known to our readers the literary cha- lish QuixoTE. Indeed, so far as the racter of this edition. As it is one editor is concerned, we are not aware which must have a place in every Eng- of his having overlooked any source to lish library, we are rather sorry that it which he ought to have applied, exis not set forth with

a little more ex- cepting only the German labours of ternal splendour. These five duode, Ludavig Tieck. cimos are certainly prettily printed, and His notes, read continuously, and very well adapted for ordinary use; without reference to the text they sa but when the book comes to be re- admirably illustrate, would form a printed, we would advise the publish- most delightful book. Indeed, what ers to let it be in the form of a large can be more interesting than such a and handsome octavo, in four volumes. · collection of rare anecdotes, curious It is a pity to see those ballads crowded quotations from forgotten books, and into a narrow page. And why deprive beautiful versions of most beautiful the noble Don of his usual accompani- ballads? Printed in &: volume by ment of engravings? We cannot away themselves, these notes to Don Quix. with the want of Sancho's flying out ote would constitute one of the most of the carpet-Don Quixote hanging entertaining Ang in our language, or from the hole in the wall

, &c. Smirke's in any other that we are acquainted designs are admirable; but the native with. But, above all, to the studept old Spanish ones of Castillo, engraved of Spanish, who attacks the Don in the in the Academy's large edition of 1781, original, they must be altogether inare infinitely the best, And, indeed, valuable, for Cervantes allusions to we think Don Quixote never ought to the works of Spanish authors, partiappear without them. This book, cularly his own contemporaries, are so printed in a more splendid shape, and numerous, that when Don Quixote apillustrated with etchings, no matter peared, it was regarded by the literati how slight, from Castillo and Brunete, of Madrid almost as a sort of Spanish would be all that any one would de- Dunciad.

er.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIPB. We happened to make a remark not the honest Radicals hawk about the long ago very hastily, which, upon different stands from which the Cammore mature consideration, we are in- berwell, Clapham, and Hampstead clined to think, on the whole, extreme- coaches set off; and, of course, neither ly just, viz, that the writing of verses Byron, nor Mr Murray, nor the reading is at present an unpopular and unpro. public, are much the better for these. fitable exercise. Both Scott and Crabbe Whether they who have bought the have retired from the field, at least for sixpenny copies have been the better a season, Southey has done nothing or the worse for them, it would be dife worth talking of since his RODERICK ; ficult to say. Perhaps neither the one and that splendid poem, prized as it is, nor the other. In fact, we shrewdly and ever will be, by those with whom suspect, that Cain, though it has its literature is a study, is forgotten, or faults no doubt, is a production which very nearly so, by the reading public. even the worthy Chancellor of EngWordsworth is always writing verses; land has not been able to force into any and occasionally he sends forth a small very distinguished favour among the pamphlet, containing several pages of habitual disciples of the Hones and the the finest verses possible; but there is Carliles. no striving against the stream, even for In short, Byron, Croly, and Mil. & Wordsworth ; and we suppose his man, are the only people who now write publishers never think of venturing be verses worthy of the name. The first yond a 500 or 750 edition, which, as is on the wane; the third is not ineditions go now, is just nothing. Miss crescent; and the second still owes his Baillie's Metrical Legends werea damp chief fame to “ Paris in 1815.”+

On Lallah Rookh, as on a gilded Still, however, there are a multitude funeral pile, the fame of Mr Moore of readers of poetry among us; and the flashed up, and vanished. Coleridge question arises, what poetry do these has published no verses that we know chiefly indulge on? We shall endeaof these some years past, the more's vour to answer this question generalthe pity, except a few occasional stan- ly and briefly, as is our custom on such zas in the pages of this Miscellany. Occasions. Wilson's “ Lays of Fairy-Land" have And first of all, to clear away some been, it is probable, knocked out of of the rubbish at once, nobody reads his head by Scotch metaphysics. the Cockneys. The very copies of them Campbell's Gertrude is now a lady of in circulating libraries are asleep on very mature years. Barry Cornwall is dusty shelves. Even among the frail as much passé as Rosa Matilda. Hogg, sisterhood, since Juan appeared, a betnow a great sheep-farmer, is at last real ter taste has sprung up, and Rimini ly deserving of the name of “ the Eto pimps in vain. Queen Mab disturbs trick Shepherd.” Nobody would pube no lady's slumbers. She does not even lish a poem of the Cockney-school now. tickle the poses of parsons. a-days; and, in short, all the older Wordsworth is much studied and hands, except Byron, good, bad, and cherished by a few devoted lovers of indifferent, are resting upon their poetry and by none more so than Mr

Francis Jeffrey. Southey is a great faEven his Lordship has not been do- 'vourite with young men of a classical ing much of late to his own purpose taste. He is quite the standing author or to his publisher's purpose or to at Oxford and Cambridge, particularly any good purpose whatever, except his among those who are not quite Bác printer's. Don Juan, although second chelors of Arts. But these gentlemen, to none of his works in poetical merits, when they quit the university, genefor obvious reasons never sold to any rally dispose of their books, to pay off great extent; and as for his tragedies, a few ticks, and they forget the Lauwe all know they have hung very very reate to a culpable degree when they heavy in the market. Cain, to be sure, have taken their degrees, and fairly has sold ell; but, then, this is true nest! into curacies. Southey's chief only of the sixpenny editions, which consolation, therefore, must be the same

Oars.

Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. A Selection from the Papers of the late Arthur Austin. . Post 8yo. Blackwood, Edinburgh; Cadell, London, 1822.

+ Our Reviewer had not seen Catiline.-C. N.

as Wordswortli's. As for Coleridge, this moment, the fourth, the fifth, the his Ancient Mariner and Genevieve are sixth, or the seventh name in the caknown by heart by some hundreds- lendar of English verse. No man can and the million knows nothing more

shew his face in decent company withof him than they do of Marvel or Cow- qut being, or pretending to be perfectley; while Bowles is, strange to say, ly familiar with our three living clase more known by his pamphlets than sics. Their works are almost essenthose beautiful sonnets, which first tial parts of the furniture of a decent touched the poetic spark slumbering house,--as the dinner-table itself ; in the young heart of Coleridge. whereas the books of our other poeti.

Miss Baillie, over and above that qal friends may be likened rather to small class of the truly initiated, who your billiard-tables,-chess-boards, will never forget her Basil and Montecommodes,--Bühl cabinets, and so FORT, enjoys an extensive popularity forth. As for Hogg, his situation in among the elderly and more sentiment-. the library of an English gentleman, al members of her own sex, who pro- five hundred miles from Yarrow-wabably read her works chiefly because ter, is, perhaps, like nothing so much they are the works of a woman--just as that of some stuffed native of Boas thousands of sober people read Cow, tany Bay, grinning down from a bracket per, merely from some obscure sort of in a stair-case. idea that Cowper was a very religious: On VERSE, therefore, at the present character, and, perhaps, some vague crisis of affairs, little or no productive feeling that the Taşk is not quite such labour is employed. But is the same tough work on a hot Sunday evening thing true as to Poetry? No, most, in July, as Magee on the Atonement, assuredly. On the contrary, there can or Butler's Analogy, or Watson's Apo- be no doubt that the Author of WaJogy, or any other professedly theolo-verly, single-handed, pours forth more gical work equally above their com- good poetry in one year just now, than prehension.

ever Sir Walter Scott did in two years Campbell's Pleasures of Hope have when he was writing verses-(and, pernow little vogue; but Gertrude, and baps, a greater proportion of this in a his exquisite ininor poems, are still as higher kind of poetry than he ever popular as ever. They are not much clothed in verse at all)

—or than Lord mentioned, it is true; but that is mere- Byron ever produced in a similar pely owing to the universal agreement riod of time---or Mr Crabbe in a dozen about their merits. He is, perhaps,i of years. In like manner, the Author the poet of our own day, who is most of Anastasius, though we are not aware generally considered as having passed of his ever having written a single into the calm state of an established stanza, is a true and a noble poet ; and classical, author of the second order. that no one can doubt who has ever People would as soon think of raving read his story of Euphrosyne-or his away at a tea-table about Goldsmith, Voyage to Venice. In a word, people or Rogers, or Hamilton of Bangour, may be sick even of good verse, but as about Mr Campbell.

people never can be sick of good poetry Of some of the other poets we al- and of good poetry, therefore, we still luded to in the opening of this article, have enough and to spare, day by all, we bave time to say is, that the day, and year by year." I REPRE bulk of their books is forgotten, but Perhaps, however, the aversion to that a few detached passages and mi-, writing verse has gone too far. At por pieces of theirs have passed into least, we could not help thinking so the standard corpus of our poetry; and, many dozen itimes, while engaged in will there live for ever. i :), the perusal of this / volume, entitled,

The three most popular names, Scott; « Lights and Shadows ; volume Crabbe, Byron, still remain to be dis most indubitably full of exquisite pocussed. Each in his way has become etry and of poetry which we do think a British classic of the first class; and, ought pot to have been written, at generally speaking, they are none of least a great part of it, in any things them much spoken about, any more but verse. ), !!!" than Dryden or Pope. Shakespeare, Our meaning is that in this bookSpenser, Milton, still certainly stand for a book written in prose the purely by themselves. But, perhaps, it would poetical materials bear too great a probe no easy matter to say, which is, at portion to the prosaic ; and it is this

we think that is likely to be felt as the few of them are so, of variety. Scotchief imperfection of a very delightful, tish life, and that, generally speaking, and in many instances a very powerful not of the highest order, is delineated performance. Our notion of the mat- in its pages; and these, like that which ter is, that the author would have pro- they shadow forth, are grave and gay, duced a much better book had he in, melancholy and cheerful, by turns ; termingled verse and prose. Exquisite though, perhaps, upon the whole, the prose he has produced in abundance; predominating vein may be not unfitbut we feel quite certain that had hé ly characterized as that of a gentle and followed the free motives of his own graceful pathos. The images on which genius, without paying any attention the fancy of the writer seems to dwell to the little capricious whims of the with the most delight, are those of moment, there are ideas, and feelings, beauty, innocence, repose. External and delineations of passion in this vo- nature, however, is, in all her prolume, which would have received the vinces, equally familiar to him; and ornaments of versification ;--things, in in describing the scenery of Scotland, a word, which Nature meant to receive whether in the green pastoral valleys these ornaments; and which have, by of the South, or in the dark and shanot receiving them, been, to a certain dowy glens of the Highlands, he reextent, 66 shorn of their beams !”- veals a power that is altogether admiWhat a pity would it have been had rable, and an originality at the same Wordsworth written his " Ruth, or time, which, considering how lately Wilson his “ Scholar's Funeral,” or the book must have been written, is to Goldsmith his “ Sweet Auburn,” in us quite astonishing. [Were Turner prose. Yet six or seven things at least, to paint Italian scenery, his pictures quite as culpable as these would have would not be like those of either Claude been, have really been committed by of of Salvator ; but they would be “ the late William Austin”-whoever something worthy of Turner, and that [we doubt not living and life- therefore as good as either. ]-In like like) person may chance to be. manner, the quiet struggles of gentle

There is so much knowledge of " af- bosoms are what our author chiefly defairs in general” displayed in his little scribes; yet here and there the deepest volume, that we have no doubt the and darkest parts of our nature fall in author will take our admonition in his way, and he grapples with them good part, and hereafter be more mo- strongly and terribly. After reading derate in his use of condiments. In one of his more sombre' and tragic the meantime, we must try to give our pieces, one turns, perhaps in the next readers who have not seen the book, page, to something which the serene some notion of its character and con- and happy love of early and innocent tents.

youth would seem to have inspired ; Here is then--a very thick post- and it is then that we feel how well octavo volume, of upwards of 430 the book deserves its title ; and how pages, printed in the most beautiful widely and wisely the eye of genius manner, by Ramsay. (Either Davison has been ranging over the whole suror Ballantyne might have been proud face of our troubled and uncertain exof putting such a thing through their istence. hands.) Twenty-four separate tales The narrow limits within which each are discussed within these limits'; and tale is confined, have prevented the the whole, laying other merits out of author from entering into any thing view, is certainly one of the prettiest like complex plots or artful denouements.

story books” that any man can put the structure of many of them reinto his library, or lay upon his draw-l minds .us of our old simple ballads. ing-room table, for the benefit of the We have generally two, or at the most “ youths and virgins” of his house three characters in a piece ; these are hold. It is a “story book,” however, not elaborately brought out, but geof a kind quité new, at least in English» nerally well-defined, and at times most literature ; for, we rather suspect that clearly defined, by a few apparentlyunthe Germans have several nearly of the laboured epithets. A few incidents, saune sort ; and these written by the commonly quite natural, and often as very greatest of their authors. It is a new as natural, bring the story to its book full of power, and full, which happy or sorrowful close. " In some of every book of tales ought to be, though the tales, again, we have perhaps no

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