And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it !-1
I have betray'd myself.

SWL.
Do not believe it.-
Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
And see what motion in the Scottish host,
And in King Edward's.-

[Exit VIPONT.
Now will I counsel thee;
The Templar's ear is for no tale of love,
Being wedded to his Order. But I tell thee,
The brave young knight that hath no lady-love
Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds,
And its rich painting, do seem then most glorious,
When the pure ray gleams through them.-
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name ?2

GOR. Must I then speak of her to you, Sir Alan ? The thought of thee, and of thy matchless strength, Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams. The name of Swinton hath been spell sufficient To chase the rich blood from her lovely cheek, And wouldst thou now know hers?

SwI. I know it well, that ancient northern house. GOR. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace and honor In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee

SwI. It did, before disasters had untuned me.
GOR. O, her notes

Shall hush each sad remembrance to oblivion,
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling,
That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, but she,
Knows the wild harpings of our native land?
Whether they lull the shepherd on his hill,
Or wake the knight to battle; rouse to merriment,
Or soothe to sadness; she can touch each mood.
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown'd in arms,
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which shall the first
And choicest homage render to the enchantress.
SWI. You speak her talent bravely.
GOR.
Though you smile,
I do not speak it half. Her gift creative,
New measures adds to every air she wakes;
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweetness,
Like the wild modulation of the lark;
Now leaving, now returning to the strain!
To listen to her, is to seem to wander
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance,
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will,

1 "There wanted but a little of the tender passion to make this youth every way a hero of romance. But the poem has no ladies. How admirably is this defect supplied! In his enthusiastic anticipation of prosperity, he allows a name to Pscape him."-New Edinburgh Review.

2 "Amid the confusion and din of the battle, the reader is

Of youth! There's scarce three minutes to decide 'Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and defeat, Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower, List'ning her harping !

[Enter VIPOST. Where are thine, De Vipont! VIP. On death-on judgment-on eternity! For time is over with us.

Swi. There moves not, then, one pennon to our aid,

Of all that flutter yonder!

VIP. From the main English host come rushing forward

Pennons enow-ay, and their Royal Standard.
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to roost on.
SWI. (to himself.) I'll rescue him at least.-
Young Lord of Gordon,
Spur to the Regent-show the instant need-
GOR. I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not.
SwI. Not at my bidding? I, thy sire in chiv-
alry-

Thy leader in the battle -I command thee.

GOR. No, thou wilt not command me seek my

There will not twenty spears be left with us.

Gon. No, bravely as we have begun the field, So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes, More certain than a thousand messages, Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host Against yon bursting storm. If not for honor, If not for warlike rule, for shame at least He must bear down to aid us.

SWI. Must it be so! And am I forced to yield the sad consent, Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, Gordon! I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue; I at my country's, he at Heaven's command; But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice,

unexpectedly greeted with a dialogue, which breathes indeed the soft sounds of the lute in the clang of trumpets."-Montè ly Review.

3 MS." And am I doom'd to yield the sad consent That thus devotes thy life?"

MS.-"O, could there be some lesser sacrifice."

they come !

That music sounds not like thy lady's lute.

Ere Scotland saw its splendor!

GOR. Five thousand horse hung idly on yon hill,

Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth !"

[Exeunt. Loud Alarums.

SCENE III

Which framed this day of dole for our poor coun

try.

Had thy brave father held yon leading staff,
As well his rank and valor might have claim'd it,
We had not fall'n unaided.-How, O how
Is he to answer it, whose deed prevented―

GOR. Alas! alas! the author of the death-feud

You want no homeward guide; so threw my reins
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose.
Within an hour he stands before my gate;
And Magdalen will need no other token
To bid the Melrose Monks say masses for me.
Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat the halter, then?
It is my purpose,
Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's death;
And never had I a more glorious chance for't.
SwI. Here lies the way to it, knave.-Make in,
make in,

Нов.

And aid young Gordon!

[Exeunt. Loud and long Alarums. After which the back Scene rises, and discovers SWINTON on the ground, GORDON Supporting him; both much wounded.

And num'rous vassals lived, we had lack'd no aid. SwI. May God assoil the dead, and him who follows!

We've drank the poison'd beverage which we brew'd:

Have sown the wind, and reap'd the tenfold whirlwind!

But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of heart Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate inflicted; Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st no forgive

ness,

Why should'st thou share our punishment!
GOR. All need forgiveness-[distant alarum.]—
Hark, in yonder shout

Did the main battles counter!

SwI. Look on the field, brave Gordon, if thou

canst,

| And tell me how the day goes.—But I guess, Too surely do I guess

GOR. All's lost! all's lost!-Of the main Scot

tish host,

Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly forward; And some there are who seem to turn their spears Against their countrymen.

SwI. Rashness, and cowardice, and secret trea

son,

Combine to ruin us; and our hot valor, Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength, More fatal unto friends than enemies!

fall'n;

And the young ivy bush, which learn'd to climb By its support, must needs partake its fall.

VIP. Swinton? Alas! the best, the bravest,

strongest,

And sagest of our Scottish chivalry!

Forgive one moment, if to save the living,

My tongue should wrong the dead.-Gordon, bethink thee,

Thou dost but stay to perish with the corpse'
Of him who slew thy father.

GOR. Ay, but he was my sire in chivalry.
He taught my youth to soar above the promptings
Of mean and selfish vengeance; gave my youth
A name that shall not die even on this death-
spot.

Records shall tell this field had not been lost, Had all men fought like Swinton and like Gordon. [Trumpets.

Save thee, De Vipont.-Hark! the Southron trumpets.

VIP. Nay, without thee, I stir not.

Enter EDWARD, CHANDOS, PERCY, BALIOL, &c.

GOR. Ay, they come on-the Tyrant and the
Traitor,

Workman and tool, Plantagenet and Baliol.—
O for a moment's strength in this poor arm,
To do one glorious deed!

[He rushes on the English, but is made
prisoner with VIPONT.

K. ED. Disarm them-harm them not; though it was they

Made havoc on the archers of our vanguard,
They and that bulky champion. Where is he?
CHAN. Here lies the giant! Say his name, young
Knight?

2

GOR. Let it suffice, he was a man this morning. CHA. I question'd thee in sport. I do not need Thy information, youth. Who that has fought Through all these Scottish wars, but knows his crest,

1 MS.-"Thou hast small cause to tarry with the corpse." 2 In his narrative of events on the day after the battle of Sheriffmuir, Sir Walter Scott says, " Amongst the gentlemen who fell on this occasion, were several on both sides, alike eminent for birth and character. The body of the gallant young Earl of Strathmore was found on the field watched by a faithful old domestic, who, being asked the name of the person whose body he waited upon with so much care, made this striking reply, 'He was a man yesterday."-Tales of a Grandfather.

MS.-"Stood arm'd beside my couch," &c.

4 "The character of Swinton is obviously a favorite with the author, to which circumstance we are probably indebted for the strong relief in which it is given, and the perfect verisimilitude which belongs to it. The stately commanding figure of the veteran warrior, whom, by the illusion of his art, the

author has placed in veritable presentment before us:—his ven erable age, superior prowess, and intuitive decision ;—the broils in which he had engaged, the misfortunes he had suffered, and the intrepid fortitude with which he sustained them,-together with that rigorous control of temper, not to be shaken even by unmerited contumely and insult ;-these qualities, grouped and embodied in one and the same character, render it morally impossible that we should not at once sympathize and admire. The inherent force of his character is finely illustrated in the effect produced upon Lord Gordon by the first appearance of the man who had made him fatherless.'"- Edinburgå Magazine, July, 1822.

A Venetian General, observing his soldiers testified some unwillingness to fight against those of the Pope, whom they regarded as father of the Church, addressed them in terms of similar encouragement,-" Fight on! we were Venetians before we were Christians."

the drums,

Sound trumpets, and pursue the fugitives,

"It is generally the case that much expectation ends in disappointment. The free delineation of character in some of the recent Scottish Novels, and the admirable conversations interspersed throughout them, raised hopes that, when a regular drama should be attempted by the person who was considered as their author, the success would be eminent. Its announcement, too, in a solemn and formal manner, did not diminish the interest of the public. The drama, however, which was expected, turns out to be in fact, and not only in name, merely a dramatic sketch, which is entirely deficient in plot, and contains but three characters, Swinton, Gordon, and Edward, in whom any interest is endeavored to be excited. With some exceptions, the dialogue also is flat and coarse; and for all these defects, one or two vigorous descriptions of battle scenes will scarcely make sufficient atonement, except in the eyes of very enthusiastic friends."-Monthly Review.

"Halidon Hill, we understand, unlike the earlier poems of its author, has not been received into the ranks of popular favor. Such rumors, of course, have no effect on our critical judgment; but we cannot forbear saying, that, thinking as we do very highly of the spirit and taste with which an interesting tale is here sketched in natural and energetic verse, we are yet far from feeling surprised that the approbation, which it is our pleasing duty to bestow, should not have been anticipated by the ordinary readers of the work before us. It bears, in truth, no great resemblance to the narrative poems from

render'd

These wars, I trust, will soon find lasting close.1

which Sir Walter Scott derived his first and high reputation, and by which, for the present, his genius must be characterized. It is wholly free from many of their most obvious faults --their carelessness, their irrégularity, and their inequality both of conception and of execution; but it wants likewise no inconsiderable portion of their beanties-it has less pomp and cir cumstance,' less picturesque description, romantic association, and chivalrous glitter, less sentiment and reflection, less perhaps of all their striking charms, with the single exception of that one redeeming and sufficing quality, which forms, in our view, the highest recommendation of all the author's works of imagination, their unaffected and unflagging VIGOR. This perhaps, after all, is only saying that we have before us a dramatic poem, instead of a metrical tale of romance, and that the author has had too much taste and discretion to bedizen his scenes with inappropriate and encumbering ornament. There is, however, a class of readers of poetry, and a pretty large class, too, who have no relish for a work, however naturally and strongly the characters and incidents may be conceived and sustained-however appropriate and manly may be the imagery and diction-from which they cannot select any isolated passages to store in their memories or their commonplace books, to whisper into a lady's ear, or transcribe into a lady's album. With this tea-table and watering-place school of critics, Halidon Hill' must expect no favor; it has no rant -no mysticism-and, worst offence of all, no affectation."British Critic, October, 1822.

INTRODUCTION.

THESE few scenes had the honor to be included in a Miscellany, published in the year 1823, by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are here reprinted, to unite them with the trifles of the same kind which owe their birth to the author. The singular history of the Cross and Law of Clan MacDuff is given, at length enough to satisfy the keenest antiquary, in The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. It is here only necessary to state, that the Cross was a place of refuge to any person related to MacDuff, within the ninth degree, who, having committed homicide in sudden quarrel, should reach this place, prove his descent from the Thane of Fife, and pay a certain penalty.

The shaft of the Cross was destroyed at the Reformation. The huge block of stone which served for its pedestal is still in existence near the town of Newburgh, on a kind of pass which commands the county of Fife to the southward, and to the north, the windings of the magnificent Tay and fertile country of Angus-shire. The Cross bore an inscription, which is transmitted to us in an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald. ABBOTSFORD, January, 1830.

I mean that rough-hewn block of massive stone
Placed on the summit of this mountain-pass,
Commanding prospect wide o'er field and fell,
And peopled village and extended moorland,
And the wide ocean and majestic Tay,
To the far distant Grampians.-Do not deem it
A loosen'd portion of the neighboring rock,
Detach'd by storm and thunder-'twas the pedestal
On which, in ancient times, a Cross was rear'd,
Carved o'er with words which foil'd philologists;
And the events it did commemorate
Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable,
As were the mystic characters it bore.
But, mark,—
‚—a wizard, born on Avon's bank,
Tuned but his harp to this wild northern theme,
And, lo! the scene is hallow'd. None shall pass,
Now, or in after days, beside that stone,
But he shall have strange visions; thoughts and
words,

That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human heart,
Shall rush upon his memory when he hears
The spirit-stirring name of this rude symbol;—
Oblivious sages, at that simple spell,
Shall render back their terrors with their woes,
Alas! and with their crimes-and the prod
phantoms

Shall move with step familiar to his eye,

And accents which, once heard, the ear forgets nct,
Though ne'er again to list them. Siddons, thine,
Thou matchless Siddons! thrill upon our ear;
And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form
Rises as Scotland's monarch.-But, to thee,
Joanna, why to thee speak of such visions!
Thine own wild wand can raise them.

Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine,
Take one which scarcely is of worth enough
To give or to withhold-Our time creeps on,
Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair
Tells the advancing winter of our life.
But if it be of worth enough to please,
That worth it owes to her who set the task;
If otherwise, the fault rests with the author.

PRELUDE.

NAY, smile not, Lady, when I speak of witchcraft, And say, that still there lurks amongst our glens Some touch of strange enchantment.-Mark that fragment,

1 Vol. iv. p. 266, in the Appendix to Lord Soulis, “Law of Clan MacDuff."

MacDuff's Cross.

SCENE I

The summit of a Rocky Pass near to Newburgh about two miles from the ancient Abbey of Lindores, in Fife. In the centre is Mac Duff's Cross,