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(2. CHAP. XI. One thing is certain in our Northern land, Allow that birth, or valour, wealth, or wit, Give each precedence to their possessor, Envy, that follows on such eminence, As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace, Shall pull them down each one.
Sir David Lindsay. (3.)-CHAP. XII. You talk of Gaiety and Innocence! The moment when the fatal fruit was eaten, They parted ne'er to meet again; and Malice Has ever since been playmate to light Gaiety, From the first moment when the smiling infant Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys with, To the last chuckle of the dying miser, Who on his deathbed laughs his last to hear His wealthy neighbour has become a bankrupt.
Old Play. (4.)-CHAP. xvi. 'Tis not her sense-for sure, in that
There's nothing more than common;
6 " I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've worn, And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn; For its stains and its rents she should prize it the
more, Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd with
gore.” Then deep blush'd the Princess--yet kiss'd she and
press'd The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast. “ Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall
show, If I value the blood on this garment or no.”
And when it was time for the nobles to pass,
(5)–CHAP. XVII. Were every hair upon his head a life, And every life were to be supplicated By numbers equal to those hairs quadrupled, Life after life should out like waning stars Before the daybreak—or as festive lamps, Which have lent lustre to the midnight revel, Each after each are quench'd when guests depart'
Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you may think,
down, Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke with a
frown: “ Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly and guilt, E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt ; Yet sore for
you both will repent, When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent.”
Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood,
(6.)-CHAP. XIX. Must we then sheath our still victorious sword; Turn back our forward step, which ever trode O’er foemen’s necks the onward path of glory; Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow, In God's own house we hung upon our shoulders; That vow, as unaccomplish'd as the promise Which village nurses make to still their children, And after think no more of ?
The Crusade, a Tragedy.
(7.)--CHAP. XX. When beauty leads the lion in her toils, Such are her charms, he dare not raise his mane, Far less expand the terror of his fangs, So great Alcides made his club a distaff, And spun to please fair Omphalé.
(1.)-CHAP. IX. This is the Prince of Leeches; fever, plague, Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look on him, And quit their grasp upon the tortured sinews.
(8.)--CHAP. XXIII. 'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her
hand. To change the face of the mysterious land;
Till the bewildering scenes around us seem
Life of Napoleon.
Is now the fitting place for thee :
When Time hath quell'd the oak’s bold pride,
The youthful tendril yet may hide WHILE Scott was engaged in writing the Life of
The ruins of the parent tree. Napoleon, Mr. Lockhart says,—“The rapid accumulation of books and MSS. was at once flattering and
(2.)-CHAP, III. alarming; and one of his notes to me, about the mid-Now, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your stage, dle of June, had these rhymes by way of postscript :- To vapour forth the acts of this sad age,
Stout Edgehill fight, the Newberries and the West, When with Poetry dealing
And northern clashes, where you still fought best; Room enough in a shieling :
Your strange escapes, your dangers void of fear, Neither cabin nor hovel
When bullets flew between the head and ear, Too small for a novel :
Whether you fought by Damme or the Spirit, Though my back I should rub
Of you I speak. On Diogenes’ tub,
Legend of Captain Jones. How my fancy could prance In a dance of romance !
(3.)-CHAP. IV. But my house I must swap
Yon path of greensward
Winds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion ;
There 's ready shelter from each breeze, or shower.--
1 This lay has been set to beautiful music by a lady whose poet proud of his verses, Mrs. Robert Arkwright, born Miss composition, to say nothing of her singing, might make any | Kemble.
2. Yes, lay thee down, And while thy struggling pulses flutter, Bid the grey monk his soul-mass mutter, And the deep bell its death-tone utter
Thy life is gone.
3. Be not afraid. 'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, A fever fit, and then a chill; And then an end of human ill, For thou art dead.
PERCY or Percival Rede of Trochend, in Redesdale, Northumberland, is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman, and a soldier. He was, upon two occasions, singularly unfortunate; once, when an arrow, which he had discharged at a deer, killed his celebrated dog Keeldar; and again, when, being on a bunting party, he was betrayed into the hands of a clan called Crossar, by whom he was murdered. Mr. Cooper's painting of the first of these incidents, suggested the fol. lowing stanzas. 1
1 These stanzas, accompanying an engraving from Mr. but a whole plume of them-I owe, and with the hand of my Cooper's subject "The Death of Keeldar," appeared in The heart acknowledge, a deep obligation. A poem from his pen, Gem of 1829, a literary journal edited by Thomas Hood, Esq. is likely to confer on the book that contains it, if not perpeIn the acknowledgment to his contributors, Mr. Hood says, tuity, at least a very Old Mortality,"— Preface, p. 4. The ori" To Sir Walter Scott-not merely a literary feather in my cap, ginal painting by Cooper, remains at Abbotsford.--Ed.