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More to enhance the loser's woe.'
The victor sees his fairy gold,

Transformed, when won, to drossy mold,
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss,
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.


More wouldst thou know-yon tower survey,
Yon couch unpress'd since parting day,
Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam,
And yon thin form!-the hectic red
On his pale cheek unequal spread; '
The head reclined, the loosen'd hair,
The limbs relax'd, the mournful air.-
See, he looks up;—a woful smile
Lightens his wo-worn cheek a while,-
'Tis fancy wakes some idle thought,
To gild the ruin she has wrought;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes,
Her pinions fan the wound she makes,
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 3
Now to the lattice turn his eyes,
Vain hope! to see the sun arise.
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast,
Still howls by fits the stormy blast;

["Soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways.
And yet, even there, if left without a guide,
The young adventurer unsafely plays.
Eyes, dazzled long by Fiction's gaudy rays,
In modest Truth no light nor beauty find;

And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze
That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind,
More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had sbined ?

"Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart,

And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight:
To joy each heightening charm it can impart,

But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.
And often, where no real ills affright,

Its visionary fiends, an endless train,

Assail with equal or superior might,

And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain,

And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain."

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Another hour must wear away,

Ere the East kindle into day,

And hark! to waste that weary hour,
He tries the minstrel's magic power.




Hail to thy cold and clouded beam,
Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky!
Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream
Lend to thy brow their sullen dye!'
How should thy pure and peaceful eye
Untroubled view our scenes below,

Or how a tearless beam supply

To light a world of war and wo!

Fair Queen! I will not blame thee now,
As once by Greta's fairy side;
Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow
Did then an angel's beauty hide.
And of the shades I then could chide,
Still are the thoughts to memory dear,

For, while a softer strain I tried,

They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear.

Then did I swear thy ray serene

Was form'd to light some lonely dell,
By two fond lovers only seen,
Reflected from the crystal well,

Or sleeping on their mossy cell,

Or quivering on the lattice bright,

Or glancing on their couch, to tell

How swiftly wanes the summer night!

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["The little poem that follows is, in our judgment, one of the best of Mr. Scott's attempts in this kind. He, certainly, is not in general successful as a song-writer; but, without any extraordinary effort, here are pleasing thoughts, polished expressions, and musical versification."-Monthly Review.]

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Fresh from his dreadful conference.
“Wilfrid !—what, not to sleep address'd?
Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest.
Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor; '
Bertram brings warrant to secure
His treasures, bought by spoil and blood,
For the state's use and public good.
The menials will thy voice obey;
Let his commission have its way,
In every point, in every word.”—
Then, in a whisper,-"Take thy sword!
Bertram is-what I must not tell.
I hear his hasty step-farewell! " 3 ·




Far in the chambers of the west,
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest;
The moon was cloudless now and clear,
But pale, and soon to disappear.
The thin grey clouds wax dimly light
On Brusleton and Houghton height;
And the rich dale, that eastward lay,
Waited the wakening touch of day,
To give its woods and cultured plain,
And towers and spires, to light again.
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell,
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,
And rock begirdled Gilmanscar,

And Arkingarth, lay dark afar;

[MS." Here's Risingham brings tidings sure,
Mortham has fallen on Marston Moor;
And he hath warrant to secure," etc.]

[MS.-"See that they give his warrant way."]

3["We cannot close the first Canto without bestowing the highest praise on it. The whole design of the picture is excellent; and the contrast presented to the gloomy and fearful opening by the calm and innocent conclusion, is masterly. Never were two characters more clearly and forcibly set in opposition than those of Bertram and Wilfrid. Oswald completes the group; and, for the moral purposes of the painter, is perhaps superior to the others. He is admirably designed

That middle course to steer
To cowardice and craft so dear." "

Monthly Review. ]

While, as a livelier twilight falls,
Emerge proud Barnard's bánner'd walls,
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale,
The sovereign of the lovely vale,


What prospects, from his watch-tower high,
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye!—

Far sweeping to the east, he sees


Down his deep woods the course of Tees,
And tracks his wanderings by the steam
Of summer vapours from the stream;
And ere he pace his destined hour
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower,'
These silver mists shall melt away,
And dew the woods with glittering spray.
Then in broad lustre shall be shown
That mighty trench of living stone,
And each huge trunk that, from the side,
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,
Where Tees, full many a fathom low,
Wears with his rage no common foe;
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career,
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way,
O'er solid sheets of marble grey.


Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight;

But many a tributary stream

Each from its own dark dell shall gleam :
Staindrop, who, from her silvan bowers, 4
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;

The view from Barnard Castle commands the rich and magnificent valley of Tees. Immediately adjacent to the river, the banks are very thickly wooded; at a little distance they are more open and cultivated; but, being interspersed with hedge-rows, and with isolated trees of great size and age, they still retain the richness of woodland scenery. The river itself flows in a deep trench of solid rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The finest view of its romantic course is from a handsome modern-built bridge over the Tees, by the late Mr. Morritt of Rokeby. In Leland's time, the marble quarries seem to have been of some value. "Hard under the cliff by Egleston, is found on eche side of Tese very fair marble, wont to be taken up booth by marbelers of Barnardes Castelle and of Egleston, and partly to have been wrought by them, and partly sold onwrought to others."-Itinerary. Oxford, 1768, 8vo, p. 88.



[MS.-"Betwixt the gate and Ballol's tower."]
[MS.-"Those deep-hewn banks of living stone."]
MS.-"Staindrop, who, on her silvan way,

Salutes proud Raby's turrets gray."]

The rural brook of Egliston,

And Balder, named from Odin's son;
And Greta, to whose banks ere long
We lead the lovers of the song;

And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild,
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
And last and least, but loveliest still,
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.
Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd,
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade?

Who wandering there, hath sought to change
Even for that vale so stern and strange,
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent,
Through her green copse like spires are sent?
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine,

Thy scenes and story to combine!

Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays,
List to the deeds of other days; '

'Mid Cartland's crags thou show'st the cave,
The refuge of thy champion brave;'

Giving each rock its storied tale,
Pouring a lay for every dale,
Knitting, as with a moral band,

Thy native legends with thy land,
To lend each scene the interest high

Which genius beams from Beauty's eye.


Bertram awaited not the sight

Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's height,

But from the towers, preventing day,

With Wilfrid took his early way,

While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale,

Still mingled in the silent dale.

By Barnard's bridge of stately stone,
The southern bank of Tees they won;
Their winding path then eastward cast,
And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd; 3

Each on his own deep visions bent,

[See notes to the song of Fair Rosabelle, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, vol. iv. p. 94.] [Cartland Crags, near Lanark, celebrated as among the favourite retreats of Sir William Wallace.]

3 The ruins of this abbey, or priory, (for Tanner calls it the former, and Leland the latter.) are beautifully situated upon the angle formed by a little dell called Thorsgill, at its junction with the Tees. A good part of the religious house is still in some degree habitable, but the church is in ruins. Egliston was dedicated to St. Mary and St. John the Baptist, and is supposed to have been founded by Ralph de Multon about the end of Henry the Second's reign. There were formerly the tombs of the families of Rokeby, Bowes, and Fitz-Hugh.

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