that Rokeby would be infinitely preferable out of verse. "Bertram, however roughly sketched, is a figure alive to the very finger-tips," as Mr. Swinburne says, and we long to see him in prose, released from the duty of moving to the by no means "majestic law " of octosyllabics. We grudge the absence, in fact, of one of the best of the Waverley Novels. No doubt Scott's prose has been the most potent rival of his rhyme. But his rhyme (dearly as he loves the enchantress to whom he bade so touching a farewell) never found, among men of taste and wit, so severe a censor as it found in himself. Of himself alone he was a sharp and not a generous critic. A poet without one touch of the innumerable things evil in the poetic temperament, without envy, jealousy, vanity, and with a strong sense of humour, Scott stands eternally in his own light. For, great as a writer of verse, greater as a creator in prose, great as a student, he is so infinitely best and greatest as a man, that our admiration of the poet is lost and swallowed up in our love of the Sheriff of the Forest, the Laird of Abbotsford and Kaeside.

How often among the frets and petty trials which the life of letters brings even to its humblest followers; how often in the needless interruptions to thought and work, or under the assaults of pertinacious, incompetent people, have we cause to remember the example of Sir Walter. He allowed no vexation to ruffle him; he never turned the deaf ear and the surly back on the innumerable mindless and ruthless pests who thrust themselves into every study, and murder precious time by their letters, their interested compliments, their petitions, and their complaints. If we cannot have his unexampled genius, his unwearied tolerance is, at least, an ideal that we should aspire towards; his kindness is a model which should never be absent from our gaze; his brave contempt of trifles, his indifference to the unessential, his humble estimate of self, his joy in the success of others—these are qualities immortal and immortally worthy of imitation and admiration.

A. L.

THE violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,

May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier hue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry
Ere yet the day be past its morrow ;

Nor longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

TO A LADY *

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL

TAKE these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

*See Editor's notes at end of Poems.

THE RESOLVE *

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme:

I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream;
For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot

Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot ;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:

I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides s;

The flame its glory hurls about,
The gem its lustre hides:

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,
And glowed a diamond stone,

But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall tangle me again :

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own;

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,—
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,—

'Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be widely blest,

To be so strangely crost;

The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I-
I'll rather dwell alone."

FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG *

From Waverley
(1745)

THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last ;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,

And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.