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And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere!
The blows of Berkley fall less fast,
And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast
Hath lost its lively tone;
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word,
And Percy's shout was fainter heard,
"My merry-men, fight on !”

XXVIII.

Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye,

The slackening' of the storm could spy.

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One effort more, and Scotland's free!

Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee
Is firm as Ailsa Rock;

Rush on with Highland sword and targe,
I, with my Carrick spearmen, charge;"

Now, forward to the shock !"3

At once the spears were forward thrown,
Against the sun the broadswords shone;
The pibroch lent its maddening tone,
And loud King Robert's voice was
known-

"Carrick, press on-they fail, they fail! Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,

The foe is fainting fast!
Each strike for parent, child, and wife,
For Scotland, liberty, and life,-
The battle cannot last!"

XXIX.

The fresh and desperate onset bore The foes three furlongs back and more, Leaving their noblest in their gore.

Alone, De Argentine

Yet bears on high his red-cross shield,
Gathers the relics of the field,
Renews the ranks where they have reel'd,

And still makes good the line.
Brief strife, but fierce,-his efforts raise
A bright but momentary blaze.
Fair Edith heard the Southron shout,
Beheld them turning from the rout,
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent,
In notes 'twixt triumph and lament.
That rallying force, combined anew,
Appear'd in her distracted view

To hem the Islesmen round; "O God! the combat they renew, And is no rescue found!

And ye that look thus tamely on,
And see your native land o'erthrown,
O! are your hearts of flesh or stone?"4

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XXX.

The multitude that watch'd afar,
Rejected from the ranks of war,
Had not unmoved beheld the fight,
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's right;
Each heart had caught the patriot spark,
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk,
Bondsman and serf; even female hand
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand;
But, when mute Amadine they heard
Give to their zeal his signal-word,

A phrensy fired the throng;
"Portents and miracles impeach
Our sloth-the dumb our duties teach-
And he that gives the mute his speech,
Can bid the weak be strong.

To us, as to our lords, are given
A native earth, a promised heaven;
To us, as to our lords, belongs

The vengeance for our nation's wrongs;
The choice, 'twixt death or freedom, warms
Our breasts as theirs-To arms, to arms!"
To arms they flew,-axe, club, or spear,—
And mimic ensigns high they rear,
And, like a banner'd host afar,
Bear down on England's wearied war.

XXXI.

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Already scatter'd o'er the plain,
Reproof, command, and counsel vain,
The rearward squadrons fled amain,

Or made but doubtful stay;-1
But when they mark'd the seeming show
Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe,
The boldest broke array.

O give their hapless prince his due !*
In vain the royal Edward threw
His person 'mid the spears,
Cried, "Fight!" to terror and despair,
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair,

And cursed their caitiff fears;
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein,
And forced him from the fatal plain.
With them rode Argentine, until
They gain'd the summit of the hill,

But quitted there the train:-
"In yonder field a gage I left,-
I must not live of fame bereft ;
I needs must turn again.

Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace
The fiery Douglas takes the chase,

I know his banner well.

See Appendix, Note 4 D.

MS." And rode in bands away."

8 See Appendix, Note 4 E.

MS." And bade them hope amid despair."

God send my Sovereign joy and bliss, And many a happier field than this!—

Once more, my Liege, farewell."

XXXII.

Again he faced the battle-field,-
Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.'

"Now then," he said, and couch'd his spear,
"My course is run, the goal is near;
One effort more, one brave career,

Must close this race of mine." Then in his stirrups rising high, He shouted loud his battle-cry,

"Saint James for Argentine!"
And, of the bold pursuers, four
The gallant knight from saddle bore;
But not unharm'd-a lance's point
Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint,
An axe has razed his crest;
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord,
Who press'd the chase with gory sword,

He rode with spear in rest,
And through his bloody tartans bored,

And through his gallant breast.
Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer
Yet writhed him up against the spear,

And swung his broadsword round! -Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way, Beneath that blow's tremendous sway,

The blood gush'd from the wound; And the grim Lord of Colonsay

Hath turn'd him on the ground,

And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade The mortal thrust so well repaid.

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Yet, as he saw the King advance,
He strove even then to couch his lance-
The effort was in vain!

The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse;
Wounded and weary, in mid course
He stumbled on the plain.
Then foremost was the generous Bruce
To raise his head, his helm to loose;
"Lord Earl, the day is thine!
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,
Have made our meeting all too late;

Yet this may Argentine,

As boon from ancient comrade, craveA Christian's mass, a soldier's grave."

XXXIV.

Bruce press'd his dying hand-its grasp Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,

It stiffen'd and grew cold-
"And, O farewell!" the victor cried,
"Of chivalry the flower and pride,

The arm in battle bold,
The courteous mien, the noble race,
The stainless faith, the manly face!—
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,
For late-wake of De Argentine.

O'er better knight on death-bier laid,
Torch never gleam'd nor mass was said!"

XXXV.

Nor for De Argentine alone,
Through Ninian's church these torches shone,
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone.
That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale,
On broken plate and bloodied mail,
Rent crest and shatter'd coronet,
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret ;

And the best names that England knew,
Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due.
Yet mourn not, Land of Fame!
Though ne'er the leopards on thy shield
Retreated from so sad a field,

Since Norman William came.
Oft may thine annals justly boast
Of battles stern by Scotland lost;
Grudge not her victory,

When for her freeborn rights she strove;
Rights dear to all who freedom love,"
To none so dear as thee!"

interesting-though we think that the author has hazarded rather too little embellishment in recording the adventures of the Bruce. There are many places, at least, in which he has evidently given an air of heaviness and flatness to his narration, by adhering too closely to the authentic history; and has lowered down the tone of his poetry to the tame level of the rude chroniclers by whom the incidents were originally recorded. There is a more serious and general fault, however, in the conduct of all this part of the story,-and that is, that it is not

вовод

XXXVI

Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear;
With him, a hundred voices tell
Of prodigy and miracle,

"For the mute page had spoke."—
"Page!" said Fitz-Louis, "rather say,
An angel sent from realms of day,
To burst the English yoke.
I saw his plume and bonnet drop,
When hurrying from the mountain top;
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave,
To his bright eyes new lustre gave,

A step as light upon the green,

As if his pinions waved unseen!"

"Spoke he with none?"-"With none-one

word

Burst when he saw the Island Lord,'
Returning from the battle-field."—

"What answer made the Chief ?"-" He kneel'd,

Durst not look up, but mutter'd low,
Some mingled sounds that none might know,'
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear,
As being of superior sphere."

XXXVII.

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, Heap'd then with thousands of the slain, 'Mid victor monarch's musings high, Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eye "And bore he such angelic air, Such noble front, such waving hair? Hath Ronald kneel'd to him?" he said, "Then must we call the church to aid

sufficiently national-and breathes nothing either of that animosity towards England, or that exultation over her defeat, which must have animated all Scotland at the period to which he refers; and ought, consequently, to have been the ruling passion of his poem. Mr. Scott, however, not only dwells fondly on the valor and generosity of the invaders, but actually makes an elaborate apology to the English for having ventured to select for his theme a story which records their disasters. We hope this extreme courtesy is not intended merely to appease critics, and attract readers in the southern part of the island-and yet it is difficult to see for what other purposes it could be assumed. Mr. Scott certainly need not have been afraid either of exciting rebellion among his countrymen, or of bringing his own liberality and loyalty into question, although, in speaking of the events of that remote period, where an overbearing conqueror was overthrown in a lawless attempt to subdue an independent kingdom, he had given full expression to the hatred and exultation which must have prevailed among the victors, and are indeed the only passions which can be supposed to be excited by the story of their exploits. It is not natural, and we are sure it is not poetical, to represent the agents in such tremendous scenes as calm and indulgent judges of the motives or merits of their opponents; and, by lending such a character to the leaders of his host, the author has actually lessened the interest of the mighty fight of Bannockburn, to that which might be supposed to belong to a well-regulated tournament among friendly rivals.”—JEFFREY.

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4" Bruce issues orders for the celebration of the nuptials; whether they were ever solemnized, it is impossible to say. As critics, we should certainly have forbidden the banns; because, although it is conceivable that the mere lapse of time might not have eradicated the passion of Edith, yet how such a circumstance alone, without even the assistance of an interview, could have created one in the bosom of Ronald, is altogether inconceivable. He must have proposed to marry her merely from compassion, or for the sake of her lands; and, upon either supposition, it would have comported with the delicacy of Edith to refuse his proffered hand."-Quarterly Review.

"To Mr. James Ballantyne.-Dear Sir,-You have now the whole affair, excepting two or three concluding stanzas. As your taste for bride's-cake may induce you to desire to know more of the wedding, I will save you some criticism by saying, I have settled to stop short as above.--Witness my hand, "W. S."

Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair :' And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know,

1 The reader is referred to Mr. Hogg's "Pilgrims of the Sun" for some beautiful lines, and a highly interesting note, on the death of the Duchess of Buccleuch. See ante, p. 412. The Edinburgh Reviewer (Mr. Jeffrey) says, "The story of the Lord of the Isles, in so far as it is fictitious, is palpably deficient both in interest and probability; and, in so far as it is founded on historical truth, seems to us to be objectionable, both for want of incident, and want of variety and connection in the incidents that occur. There is a romantic grandeur, however, in the scenery, and a sort of savage greatness and rude antiquity in many of the characters and events, which relieves the insipidity of the narrative, and atones for many defects in the execution."

After giving copious citations from what he considers as "the better parts of the poem," the critic says, "to give a complete and impartial idea of it, we ought to subjoin some from its more faulty passages. But this is but an irksome task at all times, and, with such an author as Mr. Scott, is both invidious and unnecessary. His faults are nearly as notorious as his beauties; and we have announced in the outset, that they are equally conspicuous in this as in his other productions. There are innumerable harsh lines and uncouth expressions, passages of a coarse and heavy diction,-and details of uninteresting minuteness and oppressive explanation. It is needless, after this, to quote such couplets as

'A damsel tired of midnight bark,
Or wanderers of a moulding stark,'-

'Tis a kind youth, but fanciful,
Unfit against the tide to pull ;'-

or to recite the many weary pages which contain the colloquies of Isabel and Edith, and set forth the unintelligible reasons of their unreasonable conduct. The concerns of these two young ladies, indeed, form the heaviest part of the poem. The mawkish generosity of the one, and the piteous fidelity of the other, are equally oppressive to the reader, and do not tend at all to put him in good humor with Lord Ronald,-who, though the beloved of both, and the nominal hero of the work, is certainly as far as possible from an interesting person. The lovers of poetry have a particular aversion to the inconstancy of other lovers,-and especially to that sort of inconstancy which is liable to the suspicion of being partly inspired by worldly ambition, and partly abjured from considerations of a still meaner selfishness. We suspect, therefore, that they will have but little indulgence for the fickleness of the Lord of the Isles, who breaks the troth he had pledged to the heiress of Lorn, as soon as he sees a chance of succeeding with the King's sister, and comes back to the slighted bride, when his royal mistress takes the vows in a convent, and the heiress gets into possession of her lands, by the forfeiture of her brother. These characters, and this story, form the great blemish of the poem; but it has rather less fire and flow and facility, we think, on the whole, than some of the author's other performances."

The Monthly Reviewer thus assails the title of the poem :"The Lord of the Isles himself, selon les règles of Mr. Scott's compositions, being the hero, is not the first person in the poem. The attendant here is always in white muslin, and Tilburina herself in white linen. Still, among the Deuteroprotoi (or second best) of the author, Lord Ronald holds a respectable rank. He is not so mere a magic-lantern figure, once seen in bower and once in field, as Lord Cranstoun; he far exceeds that tame rabbit boiled to rags without onion or

That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there 12

other sauce, De Wilton; and although he certainly falls infinitely short of that accomplished swimmer Malcolm Græme, yet he rises proportionably above the red-haired Redmond. Lord Ronald, indeed, bating his intended marriage with one woman while he loves another, is a very noble fellow; and, were he not so totally eclipsed by The Bruce,' he would have served very well to give a title to any octosyllabic epic, were it even as vigorous and poetical as the present. Nevertheless, it would have been just as proper to call Virgil's divine poem The Anchiseid,' as it is to call this The Lord of the Isles.' To all intents and purposes the aforesaid quarto is, and ought to be, The Bruce.'"

The Monthly Reviewer thus concludes his article:-"In some detached passages, the present poem may challenge any of Mr. Scott's compositions; and perhaps in the Abbot's involuntary blessing it excels any single part of any one of them. The battle, too, and many dispersed lines besides, have transcendent merit. In point of fable, however, it has not the grace and elegance of The Lady of the Lake,' nor the general clearness and vivacity of its narrative; nor the unexpected happiness of its catastrophe; and still less does it aspire to the praise of the complicated, but very proper and well-managed story of Rokeby.' It has nothing so pathetic as The Cypress Wreath;' nothing so sweetly touching as the last evening scene at Rokeby, before it is broken by Bertram; nothing (with the exception of the Abbot) so awfully melancholy as much of Mortham's history, or so powerful as Bertram's farewell to Edmund. It vies, as we have already said, with 'Marmion,' in the generally favorite part of that poem; but what has it (with the exception before stated) equal to the immurement of Constance? On the whole, however, we prefer it to Marmion;' which, in spite of much merit, always had a sort of noisy royal-circus air with it; a clap-trappery, if we may venture on such a word. Marmion,' in short, has become quite identified with Mr. Braham in our minds; and we are therefore not perhaps unbiased judges of its perfections. Finally, we do not hesitate to place The Lord of the Isles' below both of Mr. Scott's remaining longer works; and as to The Lay of the Last Minstrel,' for numerous commonplaces and separate beauties, that poem, we believe, still constitutes one of the highest steps, if not the very highest, in the ladder of the author's reputation. The characters of the present tale (with the exception of The Bruce,' who is vividly painted from history-and of some minor sketches) are certainly, in point of invention, of the most novel, that is, of the most Minerva-press description; and, as to the language and versification, the poem is in its general course as inferior to Rokeby' (by much the most correct and the least justly appreciated of the author's works) as it is in the construction and conduct of its fable. It supplies whole pages of the most prosaic narrative; but, as we conclude by recollecting, it displays also whole pages of the noblest poetry."

The British Critic says: "No poem of Mr. Scott has yet appeared with fairer claims to the public attention. If it have less pathos than the Lady of the Lake, or less display of character than Marmion, it surpasses them both in grandeur of conception, and dignity of versification. It is in every respect decidedly superior to Rokeby; and though it may not reach the Lay of the Last Minstrel in a few splendid passages, it is far more perfect as a whole. The fame of Mr. Scott, among those who are capable of distinguishing the rich ore of poetry from the dross which surrounds it, will receive no small advancement by this last effort of his genius. We discover in it a brilliancy in detached expressions, and a power of language in

the combination of images, which has never yet appeared in any of his previous publications.

"We would also believe that as his strength has increased, so his glaring errors have been diminished. But so imbedded and ingrained are these in the gems of his excellence, that no blindness can overlook, no art can divide or destroy their connection. They must be tried together at the ordeal of time, and descend unseparated to posterity. Could Mr. Scott but 'endow his purposes with words'-could he but decorate the justice and the splendor of his conceptions with more unalloyed aptness of expression, and more uniform strength and harmony of numbers, he would claim a place in the highest rank among the poets of natural feeling and natural imagery. Even as it is, with all his faults, we love him still; and when he shall cease to write, we shall find it difficult to supply his place with a better."

The Quarterly Reviewer, after giving his outline of the story of the Lord of the Isles, thus proceeds :-" In whatever point of view it be regarded, whether with reference to the incidents it contains, or the agents by whom it is carried on, we think that one less calculated to keep alive the interest and curiosity of the reader could not easily have been conceived. Of the characters, we cannot say much; they are not conceived with any great degree of originality, nor delineated with any par ticular spirit. Neither are we disposed to criticise with minuteness the incidents of the story; but we conceive that the whole poem, considering it as a narrative poem, is projected upon wrong principles.

"The story is obviously composed of two independent plots, connected with each other merely by the accidental circumstances of time and place. The liberation of Scotland by Bruce has not naturally any more connection with the loves of Ronald and the Maid of Lorn, than with those of Dido and Æneas; nor are we able to conceive any possible motive which should have induced Mr. Scott to weave them as he has done into the same narrative, except the desire of combining the advantages of an heroical, with what we may call, for want of an appropriate word, an ethical subject; an attempt which we feel assured he never would have made, had he duly weighed the very different principles upon which these dissimilar sorts of poetry are founded. Thus, had Mr. Scott introduced the loves of Ronald and the Maid of Lorn as an episode of an epic poem upon the subject of the battle of Bannockburn, its want of connection with the main action might have been excused, in favor of its intrinsic merit; but, by a great singularity of judgment, he has introduced the battle of Bannockburn as an episode, in the loves of Ronald and the Maid of Lorn. To say nothing of the obvious preposterousness of such a design, abstractedly considered, the effect of it has, we think, decidedly been to destroy that interest which either of them might separately have created: or, if any interest remain respecting the fate of the ill-requited Edith, it is because at no moment of the poem do we feel the slightest degree of it, respecting the enterprise of Bruce.

"The many beautiful passages which we have extracted

from the poem, combined with the brief remarks subjoined to each canto, will sufficiently show, that although the Lord of the Isles is not likely to add very much to the reputation of Mr. Scott, yet this must be imputed rather to the greatness of his previous reputation, than to the absolute inferiority of the poem itself. Unfortunately, its merits are merely incidental, while its defects are mixed up with the very elements of the poem. But it is not in the power of Mr. Scott to write with tameness; be the subject what it will (and he could not easily have chosen one more impracticable), he impresses upon whatever scenes he describes, so much movement and activity,-be infuses into his narrative such a flow of life, and, if we may so express ourselves, of animal spirits, that without satisfying the judgment, or moving the feelings, or elevating the mind, or even very greatly interesting the curiosity, he is able to seize upon, and, as it were, exhilarate the imagination of his readers, in a manner which is often truly unaccountable. This quality Mr. Scott possesses in an admirable degree; and supposing that he had no other object in view than to convince the world of the great poetical powers with which he is gifted, the poem before us would be quite sufficient for his purpose. But this is of very inferior importance to the public; what they want is a good poem, and as experience has shown, this can only be constructed upon a solid foundation of taste and judgment and meditation."

"These passages [referring to the preceding extract from the Quarterly, and that from the Edinburgh Review, at the commencement of the poem] appear to me to condense the result of deliberate and candid reflection, and I have therefore quoted them. The most important remarks of either Essayist on the details of the plot and execution are annexed to the last edition of the poem; and show such an exact coincidence of judgment in two masters of their calling, as had not hitherto been exemplified in the professional criticism of his metrical The defects which both point out, are, I presume,

romances.

but too completely explained by the preceding statement of the rapidity with which this, the last of those great perfor mances, had been thrown off;-[see Life, vol. v. pp. 13–15] -nor do I see that either Reviewer has failed to do sufficient justice to the beauties which redeem the imperfections of the Lord of the Isles-except as regards the whole character of Bruce, its real hero, and the picture of the Battle of Bannockburn, which, now that one can compare these works from something like the same point of view, does not appear to me in the slightest particular inferior to the Flodden of Marmion. "This poem is now, I believe, about as popular as Rokeby; but it has never reached the same station in general favor with the Lay, Marmion, or the Lady of the Lake. The first edition of 1800 copies in quarto, was, however, rapidly disposed of, and the separate editions in 8vo, which ensued before his poetical works were collected, amounted together to 15,250 copies. This, in the case of almost any other author, would have been splendid success; but, as compared with what he had previously experienced, even in his Rokeby, and still more so as compared with the enormous circulation at once attained by Lord Byron's early tales, which were then following each other in almost breathless succession, the falling off was decided."— LOCKHART, vol. v. p. 27.

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