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Till the bewildering scenes around us seem One thing is certain in our Northern land,
The vain productions of a feverish dream. Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Astolpho, a Romance. Give each precedence to their possessor, Envy, that follows on such eminence,
(9.)-CHAP. XXIV. As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace,
A grain of dust
Soiling our cup, will make our sense reject
A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass, (3.)-CHAP. XIII.
Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy. You talk of Gayety and Innocence !
Even this small cause of anger and disgust The moment when the fatal fruit was eaten, Will break the bonds of amity 'mongst princes, They parted ne'er to meet again ; and Malice And wreck their noblest purposes. Has ever since been playmate to light Gayety,
The Crusade. From the first moment when the smiling infant Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys with,
(10.)-CHAP. XXVI. To the last chuckle of the dying miser,
The tears I shed must ever fall!
I Who on his deathbed laughs his last to hear
not for an absent swain, His wealthy neighbor has become a bankrupt.
For time may happier hours recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead, 'Tis not her sense—for sure, in that
Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, There's nothing more than common;
And those that loved their steps must tread, And all her wit is only chat,
When death shall join to part no more. Like any other woman.
But worse than absence, worse than death, (5)–CHAP. XVII.
She wept her lover's sullied fame, bair his head a life,
And, fired with all the pride of birth, upon And every life were to be supplicated
She wept a soldier's injured name.
Life of Napoleon.
WHILE Scott was engaged in writing the life of O'er foemen's necks the onward path of glory; Napoleon, Mr. Lockhart says, “ The rapid acUnclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow, cumulation of books and MSS. was at once flatterIn God's own house we hung upon our shoulders; ing and alarming; and one of his notes to me, That vow, as unaccomplish'd as the promise about the middle of June, had these rhymes by Which village nurses make to still their children,
way postscript:And after think no more of ?The Crusade, a Tragedy.
When with Poetry dealing
Room enough in a shieling : (7.)--CHAP. xx.
Neither cabin nor hovel
Too small for a novel:
On Diogenes' tub,
How my fancy could prance And spun to please fair Omphalé. Anonymous. In a dance of romance !
But my house I must swap (8.)-CHAP. XXIII.
With some Brobdignag chap, 'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her
Ere I grapple, God bless me !• with Emperor hand,
Nap." To change the face of the mysterious land;
Life, vol. vii. p. 391.
Yon path of greensward
Winds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion; 1826.
There is no flint to gall thy tender foot,
There's ready shelter from each breeze, or shos(1.)-- AN HOUR WITH THEE.
But Duty guides not that way—see her stand,
With wand entwined with amaranth, near yea An hour with thee ! - When earliest day
cliffs. Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
Oft where she leads thy blood must mark thy footOh, what can frame my mind to bear
steps, The toil and turmoil, cark and care,
Oft where she leads thy head must bear the New griefs, which coming hours unfold,
storm, And sad remembrance of the old ?
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, and One hour with thee.
But she will guide thee up to noble heights, One hour with thee !--When burning June Which he who gains seems native of the sky, Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
While earthly things lie stretch'd beneath his What shall repay the faithful swain,
feet, His labor on the sultry plain;
Diminish'd, shrunk, and valuelessAnd more than cave or sheltering bough,
Anonymous. Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow One hour with thee.
My tongue pads slowly under this new language, One hour with thee!-When sun is set,
And starts and stumbles at these uncouth phraO, what can teach me to forget The thankless labors of the day;
They may be great in worth and weight, but hangi The hopes, the wishes, flung away;
Upon the native glibness of my language
Here we have one head
These two have but one meaning, thought, and (2.)— MOTTOES.
And when the single noddle has spoke out, (1)–CHAP. II.
The four legs scrape assent to it. COME forth, old man---Thy daughter's side
Old Play. Is now the fitting place for thee: When Time hath quell’d the oak’s bold pride,
(6.)-CHAP. XIV. The youthful tendril yet may hide
Deeds are done on earth, The ruins of the parent tree.
Which have their punishment ere the earth
closes (2.)-CHAP. III.
Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working Now, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision, stage,
Distinct and real, of unearthly being, To vapor forth the acts of this sad age,
All ages witness, that beside the couch Stout Edgehill fight, the Newberries and the Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost West,
Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound. And northern clashes, where you still fought best;
Old Play. Your strange escapes, your dangers void of fear, When bullets flew between the head and ear,
Our calmer moments are afraid to answer.
"So much for oblivion, my dear Sir C.; and The deadliest snakes are those which, twined now, having dismounted from my Pegasus, who is ’mongst flowers,
rather spavined, I charge a-foot, like an old draBlend their bright coloring with the varied blos- goon as I am,” &c. &c.—Life of Scott, vol. ix. p. 165.
soms, Their fierce eyes glittering like the spangled dew
drop; In all so like what nature has most harmless, That sportive innocence, which dreads no danger, from Chronicles of the Canongate. Is poison'd unawares.
1 An allusion to the enthusiastic reception of the Duke of composition, to say nothing of her singing, might make any Wellington at Sunderland.--Ep.
poet proud of his verses, Mrs. Robert Arkwright, born Miss · This lay has been set to beautiful music by a lady whose Kemble.
The Death of Beeldar
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 hunting 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 following stanzas.'
The game's afoot !—Halloo! Halloo! Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue ; But woe the shaft that erring flew
That e'er it left the string ! And ill betide the faithless yew! The stag bounds scatheless o'er the dew, And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true
Has drench'd the gray.goose wing. The noble hound-he dies, he dies, Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,
Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps for ever.
1 These stanzas, accompanying an engraving from Mr. Coop- a whole plume of them-I owe, and with the hand of my heart er's subject, “ The Death of Keeldar," appeared in The Gem acknowledge, a deep obligation. A poem
is likeof 1829, a literary journal edited by Thomas Hood, Esq. In ly to confer on the book that contains it, if not perpetuity, at the acknowledgment to his contributors, Mr. Hood says, least a very Old Mortality."-- Preface, p. 4. The original Sir Walter Scott--not merely a rary feather in my cap, but | painting by Cooper, remains at Abbotsford.—ED.