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were either killea or wounded, whereas scarcely one of the Duke of Wellington's personal attendants escaped unlıurt.

The British shock of levelld steel.-P. 504.

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon the French troops to stand the shock of the bayonet. The Imperia.

Guards, in particular, hardly stood till the British were NOTE E

within thirty yards of them, although the French author, England shall tell the fight!-P. 503.

already quoted, has put into their mouths the magnanimous

sentiment, “ The Guards never yield-they die." The same In riding up to a regiment which was hard pressed, the Duke author has covered the platean, or eminence, of St. Jean, called to the men, “Soldiers, we must never be beat, what which formed the British position, with redoubts and rewill they say in England ?" It is needless to say how this ap- trenchments which never had an existence. As the narrapeal was answered.

tive, which is in many respects curious, was written by an eye-witness, he was probably deceived by the appearance of а road and ditch which run along part of the hill. It may be also mentioned, in criticising this work, that the writer men

tions the Chateau of Hougomont to have been carried by the NOTE F.

French, although it was resolutely and successfully defended

during the whole action. The enemy, indeed, possessed themAs plies the smith his clanging trade.-P. 503.

selves of the wood by which it is surrounded, and at length

set fire to the house itself; but the British (a detachment of A private soldier of the 95th regiment compared the sound the Guards, under the command of Colonel Macdonnell, and which took place immediately upon the British cavalry min- afterwards of Colonel Home) made good the garden, and gling with those of the enemy, to "a thousand tinkers at thus preserved, by their desperate resistance, the post which tourk mending pots and kettles."

covered the return of the Duke of Wellington's right flank.

Harold the Dauntless:


Upon another occasion,says Sir Walter, I sent up another of these trifles, which, like schoolboys' kites, served bo show how the wind of popular taste was setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel, or Scald, in opposition to The Bridal of Triermain,' which was designed to bclong rather to the Italian school. This new fugitive piece was called Harold the Dauntless ;' and I am still astonished at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had published, about the same time, a work called the Poetic Mirror, containing imitations of the principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such a resemblance to Harold the Dauntless, that there was no discovering the original from the imitation , and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure.”—INTRODUCTION TO THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 1830.2

1 Published by Constable and Co., January 1817, in 12mo, placed on a level with Triermain ; and, though it contains 78. 6d.

many vigorous pictures, and splendid verses, and here and 9 " Within less than a month, the Black Dwarf and old there some happy humour, the confusion and harsh transiMortality were followed by · Harold the Dauntless, by the tions of the fable, and the dim rudeness of character and author of the Bridal of Triermain. This poem had been, it manners, seem sufficient to account for this inferiority in appears, begun several years back; nay, part of it had been public favour. It is not surprising that the author should actually printed before the appearance of Childe Harold, have redoubled his aversion to the notion of any more serious though that circumstance had escaped the author's remem- performances in verse. He had seized on an instrument of brance when he penned, in 1830, his Introduction to the Lord wider compass, and which, handled with whatever rapidity, of the Isles ; for he there says, 'I am still astonished at my seemed to reveal at every touch treasures that had hitherto having committed the gross error of selecting the very name siept unconsciously within him. He had thrown off his fetwhich Lord Byron had made so famous. The volume was 1 ters, and might well go forth rejoicing in the native elasticity published by Messrs. Constable, and had, in those booksellers' of his strength."-Life of Scott, vol. V., p. 181, phrase, considerable success.' It has never, however, been

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1 The dry humour, and sort of half Spenserian cast of these, that have not something attractive to the lover of natural as well as all the other introductory stanzas in the poem, we poetry; while any one page will show how extremely like it is tbink excellent, and scarcely outdone by any thing of the to the manner of Scott."-Blackwood's Magazine, 1817. kind we know of; and there are few parte, taken separately,

rbese few survive--and proudly let me nay, Peace of that heathen leader he sought, Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his frown; Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought; They well may serve to while an hour away, And the Count took upon him the peaceable style

Nor does the volume ask for more renown, Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle. Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down.

Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind led,
Harold the Wauntless.

Many wax'd aged, and many were dead:
Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,

Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his bair;

He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,

And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode. 1.

As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased, List to the valorous deeds that were done

He made himself peace with prelate and priest,By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son! Made his peace, and, stooping his head,

Patiently listed the counsel they said:
Count Witikind came of a regal strain,

Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and grave,
And roved with his Norsemen the land and the main. Wise and good was the counsel he gave.
Woe to the realms which he coasted ! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,

Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,

“ Thou hast murder'd, robb’d, and spoil'd, Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast: Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd; When he hoisted his standard ck,

Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, Before him was battle, behind him wrack,

Time it is now to repentance to turn; And he burn'd the churches, that heathen Dane, Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite, To light his band to their barks again.

Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:

0! while life and space are given, II.

Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!” On Erin's shores was his outrage known,

That stern old heathen his head ke raised, The winds of France had his banners blown; And on the good prelate he stedfastly gazed; Little was there to plunder, yet still

“ Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne, His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill:

My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine.” But upon merry England's coast More frequent he sail'd, for he won the most.

VI. So wide and so far his ravage they knew,

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and Wear, If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin blue, To be held of the church by bridle and spear; Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,

Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale part, Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,

To better his will, and to soften his heart: Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape,

Count Witikind was a joyful man, Beacons were lighted on headland and cape,

Less for the faith than the lands that he wan. Bells were toil'd out, and aye as they rung

The high church of Durham is dress’d for the day, Fearful and faintly the grey brothers sung,

The clergy are rank'd in their solemn array: " Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from fire, There came the Count, in a bear-skin warm, From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's ire!” Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm.

He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine,

With patience unwonted at rites divine;
He liked the wealth of fair England so well,

He abjured the gods of heathen race,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell. And he bent his head at the font of grace.
He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,

But such was the grisly old proselyte's look,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.

That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook; Three Earls came against him with all their train,- And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood, Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain.

“ Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good !” Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand, And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.

VII. But the Saxon King was a sire in age,

Up then arose that grin convertite, Weak in battle, in council sage;

Homeward he hied him when ended the rite;

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