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-But here the lay made sudden stand !—
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!—
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased,-yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;1
At length, no more his deafen'd ear
The minstrel melody can hear;

His face grows sharp,-his hands are clench'd,
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye2

Is sternly fix'd on vacancy;

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew

His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu !—3

Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass'd:
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.

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3 "Rob Roy, while on his deathbed, learned that a person, with whom he was at enmity, proposed to visit him. 'Raise me from my bed,' said the invalid; throw my plaid around me, and bring me my claymore, dirk, and pistols, -it shall never be said that a foeman saw Rob Roy MacGregor defenceless and unarmed. His foeman, conjectured to be one of the MacLarens before and after mentioned, entered and

paid his compliments, inquiring after the health of his for midable neighbour. Rob Roy maintained a cold haughty civility during their short conference; and so soon as he had eft the house, 'Now,' he said, 'all is over-let the piper play,, Ha til mi tulidh' [we return no more], and he is said to have

Brave spirit, do not seorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine."—"

XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,
Where play'd with many-colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.

The banquet proud, the chamber gay,7
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.—
Those who such simple joys have known,
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woful hour!
"Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

XXIV.

Lay of the Emprisoned Huntsman. "My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall,

And I am sick of captive thrall.

expired before the dirge was finished."-Introduction to Rob Roy. Waverley Novels, vol. vii. p. 85.

4 MS.-"And art thou gone,' the Minstrel said.

5 MS." The mightiest of a mighty line."

6 MS.-To the Printer.-"I have three pages ready to be copied, you may send for them in about an hour. The rest of my flax is on the spindle, but not yet twisted into proper yarn. I am glad you like the battle of Beal' an Duine. It is rather too long, but that was unavoidable. I hope you will push on the notes. To save time I shall send the copy when ready to St. John Street.-W. S."

7 MS.-"The banquet gay, the chamber's pride, Scarce drew one curious glance aside."

8 MS." Earnest on his game."

I wish I were, as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.'
I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wout my matins ring,3
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,--
That life is lost to love and me!"

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list ner had not turn'd her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.--
"O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt"-"O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lay his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime."
With beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair, and high arcade,
Till, at its touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI.

Within 'twas brilliant all and light" A thronging scene of figures bright; It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight,

As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue, fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;
For him she sought, who own'd this state,*
The dreaded prince whose will was fate.
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed,
For all stood bare; and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent;
On him each courtier's eye was bent;
Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring.
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!"

XXVII.

As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch's feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands,-
She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her hands.
O! not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd:---
"Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask nought for Douglas; yester even,
His prince and he have much forgiven.
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd,
Yield what they craved with clamour loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.

I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn;
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

MS." was meant for me."

2 MS." From darken'd steeple's."

3 MS.-"The lively lark my matins rung, The sable rook my vespers sung."

"

4 MS.-"Have not a hall should harbour me.”

5 MS." Within 'twas brilliant all, and bright The vision glow'd on Ellen's sight." MS.-"For him who own'd this royal state."

7 See Appendix, Note 3 Y.

8 MS.-"shrinking, quits her stay."

Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; Thou must confirm this doubting maid."

XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The Monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,-
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On Nature's raptures long should pry;

He stepp'd between-" Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle 'tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,1
"Tis under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils-for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James,
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause."-
Then, in a tone apart and low,-
"Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,3
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!".
Aloud he spoke-"Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring-4
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?"

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But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
"Forbear thy suit :-the King of Kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings,

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand:-
My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!—
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?"
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak

The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.-
"Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.-
Malcolm, come forth!"-And, at the word,
Down kneel'd the Græme to Scotland's Lord.
"For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.-
Fetters and warder for the Græme!"-
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

HARP of the North, farewell!8 The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.

7

"And now, waiving myself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He ordered me to be presented to him at a ball; and after some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royas lips, as to my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your immortalities; he preferred you to every bard past and present, and asked which of your works pleased me most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I thought the 'Lay.' He said his own opinion was nearly similar. In speaking of the others, I told him that I thought you more particularly the poet of Princes, as they never appeared more fascinating than in Marmion and the Lady of the Lake.' He was pleased to coincide, and to dwell on the description of your James's as no less royal than poetical. He spoke alternately of Homer and yourself, and seemed well acquainted with both," &c.— Letter from Lord Byron to Sir Walter Scott, July 6, 1812.– BYRON'S Life and Works, vol. ii. p. 156.

6 "Malcolm Græme has too insignificant a part assigned him, considering the favour in which he is held both by Ellen and the author; and in bringing out the shaded and imperfect character of Roderick Dhu, as a contrast to the purer virtue of his rival, Mr. Scott seems to have fallen into the common error, of making him more interesting than him whose virtues he was intended to set off, and converted the villain of the piece in some measure into its hero. A modern poet, how-exit the Lady of the Lake from the head she has tormented ever, may perhaps be pardoned for an error, of which Milton himself is thought not to have kept clear, and for which there seems so natural a cause in the difference between poetical and amiable characters."-JEFFREY.

8 MS.-To the Printer.-"I send the grand finale, and so

for six months. In canto vi. stanza 21,—stern and still, read grim and still; sternly occurs four lines higher. For a similar reason, stanza 24-dun-deer, read fleet-deer. I will probably call this morning.-Yours truly, W. S."

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,

1 "On a comparison of the merits of this Poem with the two former productions of the same unquestioned genius, we are inclined to bestow on it a very decided preference over both. It would perhaps be difficult to select any one passage of such genuine inspiration as one or two that might be pointed out in the Lay of the Last Minstrel and perhaps, in strength and discrimination of character, it may fall short of Marmion; although we are loth to resign either the rude and savage generosity of Roderick, the romantic chivalry of James, or the playful simplicity, the affectionate tenderness, the modest courage of Ellen Douglas, to the claims of any competitors in the last-mentioned poem. But, for interest and artificial management in the story, for general ease and grace of versification, and correctness of language, the Lady of the Lake must be universally allowed, we think, to excel, and very far excel, either of her predecessors."-Critical Review.

And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! "Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

"Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell-
And now, 'tis silent all !-Enchantress, fare thee
well!1

of spirit and vivacity-abounding in images that are striking at first sight to minds of every contexture-and never expressing a sentiment which it can cost the most ordinary reader any exertion to comprehend. Upon the whole, we are inclined to think more highly of the Lady of the Lake than of either of its author's former publications. We are more sure, however, that it has fewer faults than that it has greater beauties; and as its beauties bear a strong resemblance to those with which the public has been already made familiar in these celebrated works, we should not be surprised if its popularity were less splendid and remarkable. For our own parts, however, we are of opinion that it will be oftener read hereafter than either of them; and that, if it had appeared first in the series, their reception would have been less favourable than that which it has experienced. It is more polished in its diction, and more regular in its versification; the story "There is nothing in Mr. Scott of the severe and majestic is constructed with infinitely more skill and address; there is style of Milton-or of the terse and fine composition of Pope a greater proportion of pleasing and tender passages, with --or of the elaborate elegance and melody of Campbell-or much less antiquarian detail; and, upon the whole, a larger even of the flowing and redundant diction of Southey,-but variety of characters, more artfully and judiciously contrasted. there is a medley of bright images and glowing, set carelessly There is nothing so fine, perhaps, as the battle in Marmionand loosely together—a diction tinged successively with the or so picturesque as some of the scattered sketches in the careless richness of Shakespeare-the harshness and antique Lay; but there is a richness and a spirit in the whole piece simplicity of the old romances-the homeliness of vulgar bal-which does not pervade either of these poems-a profusion of lads and anecdotes-and the sentimental glitter of the most incident, and a shifting brilliancy of colouring, that reminds modern poetry, passing from the borders of the ridiculous us of the witchery of Ariosto-and a constant elasticity and to those of the sublime-alternately minute and energetic-occasional energy, which seem to belong more peculiarly to sometimes artificial, and frequently negligent, but always full the author now before us."—JEFFREY.

231

APPENDIX.

NOTE A.

the heights of Uam-Var,

And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told, A giant made his den of old.-P. 178.

Ua-var, as the name is pronounced, or more properly Uaighmor, is a mountain to the north-east of the village of Callender in Menteith, deriving its name, which signifies the great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat among the rocks on the south side, said, by tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers and banditti, who have been only extirpated within these forty or fifty years. Strictly speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the name would imply, but a sort of small enclosure, or recess, surrounded with large rocks, and open aboye head. It may have been originally designed as a toil for deer, who might get in from the outside, but would find it difficult to return. This opinion prevails among the old sportsmen and deer-stalkers in the neighbourhood.

NOTE B.

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,

Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed.—P. 179. "The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet neuertheless, the race is so mingled at these days, that we find them of all colours. These are the hounds which the abbots of St. Hubert haue always kept some of their race or kind, in honour or remembrance of the saint, which was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereupon we may conceive that (by the grace of God) all good huntsmen shall follow them into paradise. To return vnto my former purpose, this kind of dogges hath bene dispersed through the counties of Henault, Lorayne, Flanders, and Burgoyne. They are mighty of body, neuertheless their legges are low and short, likewise they are not swift, although they be very good of sent, hunting chaces which are farre straggled, fearing neither water nor cold, and doe more couet the chaces that smell, as foxes, bore, and such like, than other, because they find themselves neither of swiftness nor courage to hunt and kill the chaces that are lighter and swifter. The bloodhounds of this colour proue good, especially those that are cole blacke, but I made no great account to breed on them, or to keepe the kind, and yet I found a book which a hunter did dedicate to a prince of Lorayne, which seemed to loue hunting much, wherein was a blason which the same hunter gaue to his bloodhound, called Souyllard, which was white:

'My name came first from holy Hubert's race, Souyllard my sire, a hound of singular grace.'

Whereupon we may presume that some of the kind proue white sometimes, but they are not of the kind of the Greffiers

or Bouxes, which we haue at these dayes."-The noble Art of Venerie or Hunting, translated and collected for the Use of ali Noblemen and Gentlemen. Lond. 1611. 4to, p. 15.

NOTE C.

For the death-wound and death-halloo,

Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew.—P. 179.

When the stag turned to bay, the ancient hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, and killing or disabling the desperate animal. At certain times of the year this was held particularly dangerous, a wound received from a stag's horn being then deemed poisonous, and more dangerous than one from the tusks of a boar, as the old rhyme testifies :

"If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier, But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore thou need'st not fear."

At all times, however, the task was dangerous, and to be ad-" ventured upon wisely and warily, either by getting behind the stag while he was gazing on the hounds, or by watching an opportunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and kill him with the sword. See many directions to this purpose in the Booke of Hunting, chap. 41. Wilson the historian has recorded a providential escape which befell him in this hazardous sport, while a youth and follower of the Earl of Essex.

"Sir Peter Lee, of Lime, in Cheshire, invited my lord one summer to hunt the stagg. And having a great stagg in chase, and many gentlemen in the pursuit, the stagg took soyle. And divers, whereof I was one, alighted, and stood with swords drawne, to have a cut at him, at his coming out of the water. The staggs there being wonderfully fierce and dangerous, made us youths more eager to be at him. But he escaped us all. And it was my misfortune to be hindered of my coming nere him, the way being sliperie, by a falle; which gave occasion to some, who did not know mee, to speak as if I had falne for feare. Which being told mee, I left the stagg, and followed the gentleman who [first] spake it. But I found him of that cold temper, that it seems his words made an escape from him; as by his denial and repentance it appeared. But this made mee more violent in the pursuit of the stagg, to recover my reputation. And I happened to be the only horseman in, when the dogs sett him up at bay; and approaching near him on horsebacke, he broke through the dogs, and run at mee, and tore my horse's side with his hornes, close by my thigh. Then I quitted my horse, and grew more cunning (for the dogs had settę him up againe), stealing behind him with my sword, and cut his hamstrings; and then got upon his back, and cut his throate; which, as I was doing, the company came in, and blamed my rashness for running such a ha zard."-PECK'S Desiderata Curiosa, ii. 464.

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