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Now stop! now stop!' the priest he said, (he knew them both right well,)
The base priest's word Gonsalez heard, Now, by the rood !' quoth he,
A hundred deaths I'll suffer, or ere this thing shall be.'
Gramercy !' quoth Gonsalez, or else my sight is gone,
Come forth, come forth, Infanta, mine own true men they be,
Their swords shine bright, Infanta, and every blade is thine.'” We have quoted so many of these fine ballads, that we are sure it is unnecessary for us to comment on their merits. We shall, therefore, extract one more, and have done. It shall be “the Song of the Admiral Guarinos,"—the same which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are described as hearing sung by
a labourer going to his work, at day-break,” in one of the most beautiful passages that can be pointed out in the whole of the Romance.
Now, God forbid ! Marlotes, and Mary, his dear mother, That I should leave the faith of Christ, and bind me to another ; For women-I've one wife in France, and I'll wed no more in Spain ; I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain.' Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, And all for ire commanded he should be led away; Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vanlt to lie, With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky. With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plight Might well express his helplessness, doom'd never more to fight. Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more. Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom To see God's day light bright and clear, instead of dungeon-gloom ; Three times alone they bring him out, like Sampson long ago, Before the Moorish rabble-rout, to be a sport and show. On three high-feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be, The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity, And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers, And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the powers. Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are come and gone, And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist, John; Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due, And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew. Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear, Below the Moorish knights must ride, and pierce it with the spear; But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, No Moorish shaft so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain. Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail, The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale ; And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town, Nor child should suck, nor man should eat, till the mark was tumbled down. The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound, Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. • Now, help me, God! the captive cries, what means this din so loud ? 0, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud !
O, is it that some Pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed,
These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed,
Give me my grey, old Trebizond, so be he is not dead,
The faltor put his mantle on, and came unto the king,
barr'd the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasp
Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life. The land of France lies there! We have now done enough to make sire to possess in the shape of an Eng known to our readers the literary cha- lish Quixote. Indeed, so far as the racter of this edition. As it is one editor is concerned, we are not aware which must have a place in every Eng- of his having overlooked any source to lish library, we are rather sorry that it which he onght to have applied, exis not set forth with
a little more ex- cepting only the German labours a ternal splendour. These five duode. Lūdavig Tieck. cimošare certainly prettily printed, and His notes, read continuously, and very well adapted for ordinary use; without reference to the text they sa but when the book comes to be re- admirably illustrate, would form a printed, we would advise the publish- most delightful book. Indeed, what ers to let it be in the form of a large can be more interesting than such a and handsome octavo, in four volumes. collection of rare anecdotes, curious It is a pity to see those ballads crowded quotations from forgotten books, and into a narrow page. And why deprive beautiful versions of most beautiful the noble Don of his usual accompani- ballads ? Printed in a rolume by ment of engravings? We cannot away themselves, these notes to Don Quiswith the want of Sancho's flying out ote would constitute one of the most of the carpet-Don Quixote hanging entertaining ana in our language, er from the hole in the wall, &c. Smirke's in any other that we are acquainted designs are admirable ; but the native with. But, above all, to the studept old Spanish ones of Castillo, engraved of Spanish, who attacks the Don in the in the Academy's large edition of 1781, original, they must be altogether inare infinitely the best. And, indeed, valuable, for Cervantes allusions to we think Don Quixote never ought to the works of Spanish authors, pertie appear without THEM. This book, cularly his own contemporaries, are so printed in a more splendid shape, and numerous, that when Don Quixote ap. illustrated with etchings, no matter peared, it was regarded by the literati how slight, from Castillo and Brunete, of Madrid almost as a sort of Spanish would be all that any one would de. Dunciad.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISU LIPB. We happened to make a remark not the honest Radicals hawk about the long ago very hastily, which, upon different stands from which the Cammore mature consideration, we are in- berwell, Clapham, and Hampstead clined to think, on the whole, extremèo coaches set off ; and, of course, neither ly just, viz, that the writing of verses Byron, nor Mr Murray, nor the reading is at present an unpopular and unpro- public, are much the better for these. fitable exercise. Both Scott and Crabbe Whether they who have bought the have retired from the field, at least for sixpenny copies have been the better a season, Southey has done nothing or the worse for them, it would be dife worth talking of since his RODERICK; ficult to say. Perhaps neither the one and that splendid poem, prized as it is, nor the other. In fact, we shrewdly and ever will be, by those with whom suspect, that Cain, though it has its literature is a study, is forgotten, or faults no doubt, is a production which very nearly so, by the reading public. even the worthy Chancellor of EngWordsworth is always writing verses; land has not been able to force into any and occasionally he sends forth a small very distinguished favour among the pamphlet, containing several pages of habitual disciples of the Hones and the the finest verses possible; but there is Carliles. no striving against the stream, even for In short, Byron, Croly, and Mil. à Wordsworth ; and we suppose his man, are the only people who now write publishers never think of venturing be verses worthy of the name. The first yond a 500 or 750 edition, which, as is on the wane; the third is not ineditions go now, is just nothing. Miss crescent; and the second still owes his Baillie's Metrical Legends were a damp- chief fame to “ Paris in 1815.”+ er. On Lallah Rookh, as on a gilded Still, however, there are a multitude funeral pile, the fame of Mr Moore of readers of poetry among us; and the flashed up, and vanished. Coleridge question arises, what poetry do these has published no verses that we know chiefly indulge on? We shall endeaof these some years past, the more's vour to answer this question generalthe pity, except a few occasional stan- ly and briefly, as is our custom on such zas in the pages of this Miscellany. occasions. Wilson's " Lays of Fairy-Land” have And first of all, to clear away some been, it is probable, knocked out of of the rubbish at once, nobody reads his head by Scotch metaphysics. the Cockneys. The very copies of them Campbell's Gertrude is now a lady of in circulating libraries are asleep on very mature years. Barry Cornwall is dusty shelves. Even among the frail as much passé as Rosa Matilda. Hogg, sisterhood, since Juan appeared,
a betnow a great sheep-fariner, is at last real ter taste has sprung up, and Rimini ly deserving of the name of “the Et. pimps in vain. Queen Mab disturbs trick Shepherd." Nobody would pub- no lady's slumbers. She does not even lish a poem of the Cockney-school now. tickle the poses of parsons. a-days; and, in short, all the older Wordsworth is much studied and hands, except Byron, good, bad, and cherished by a few devoted lovers of indifferent, are resting upon their poetry and by none more so than Mr Qars.
Francis Jeffrey. Southey is a great faEven his Lordship has not been do- vourite with young men of a classical ing much of late to his own purpose taste. He is quite the standing author or to his publisher's purpose-or to at Oxford and Cambridge, particularly any good purpose whatever, except his among those who are not quite Baprinter's. Don Juan, although second chelors of Arts. But these gentlemen, to none of his works in poetical merits, when they quit the university, genefor obvious reasons never sold to any rally dispose of their books, to pay off great extent; and as for his tragedies, a few ticks, and they forget the Lauwe all know they have hung very very reate to a culpable degree when they heavy in the market. Cain, to be sure, have taken their degrees, and fairly has sold well; but, then, this is true nestled into curacies. Southey's chief only of the sixpenny editions, which consolation, therefore, must be the same
• Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. A Selection from the Papers of the late Arthur Austin. Post 8vo. Blackwood, Edinburgh ; Cadell, London. 1822.
+ Our Reviewer had not scen Catiline.-C. N.
as Wordswortl's. As for Coleridge, this moment, the fourth, the fifth, the his Ancient Mariner and Genevieve are sixth, or the seventh name in the caknown by heart by some bundreds lendar of English verse. No man can and the million knows nothing more shew his face in decent company withof him than they do of Marvel or Cow- out being, or pretending to be, perfectley; while Bowles is, strange to say, ly familiar with our three living clasmore known by his pamphlets than sics. Their works are almost essenthose beautiful sonnets, which first tial parts of the furniture of a decent touched the poetic spark slumbering house,-as the dinner-table itself ; in the young heart of Coleridge. whereas the books of our other poeti.
Miss Baillie, over and above that cal friends may be likened rather to small class of the truly initiated, who your billiard-tables,-chess-boards, will never forget her Basıl and Mont, commodes,-Bühl cabinets, and so FORT, enjoys an extensive popularity forth. As for Hogg, his situation in among the elderly and more sentiments, the library of an English gentleman, al members of her own sex, who pro-, five hundred miles from Yarrow-wabably read her works chiefly because ter, is, perhaps, like nothing so much they are the works of a woman-just as that of some stuffed native of Boas thousands of sober people read Cow. tany Bay, grinning down from a bracket per, merely from some obscure sort of in a stair-case. idea that Cowper was a very religious On VERSE, therefore, at the present character, and, perhaps, some vague crisis of affairs, little or no productive feeling that the Task is notquite such. labour is employed. But is the same tough work on a hot Sunday evening thing true as to POETRY? No, most in July, as Magee on the Atonement, assuredly. On the contrary, there can or Butler's Analogy, or Watson's Apo- be no doubt that the Author of WaJogy, or any other professedly theolo-verly, single-handed, pours forth more gical work equally above their com- good poetry in one year just now, than prehension.
ever Sir Walter Scott did in two years Campbell's Pleasures of Hope have when he was writing verses-(and, pernow little vogue ; but Gertrude, and baps, a greater proportion of this in a his exquisite minor poems, are still as higher kind of poetry than he ever popular as ever. They are not much clothed in verse at all) or than Lord mentioned, it is true; but that is mere- Byron ever produced in a similar pely owing to the universal agreement riod of time-or Mr Crabbe in a dozen about their merits. He is, perhaps, of years. In like manner, the Author the poet of our own day, who is most of Anastasius, though we are not aware generally considered as having passed of his ever having written a single into the calm state of an established stanza, is a true and a noble poet ; and classical author of the second order. that no one can doubt who has ever People would as soou think of raving read his story of Euphrosyne-or his away at a tea-table about Goldsmith, Voyage to Venice. In a word, people or Rogers, or Hamilton of Bangour, may be sick even of good verse, but as about Mr Campbell.
people never can be sick of good poetry of some of the other poets we al- and of good poetry, therefore, we still luded to in the opening of this article, have enough and to spare, day by all we bave time to say is, that the day, and year by year."... ! bulk of their books is forgotten, but Perhaps, however, the aversion to that a few detached passages and mis writing verse has gone too far. At nor pieces of theirs have passed into least, we could not help thinking so the standard corpus of our poetry, and many dozen times wbile engaged in will there live for ever.
the perusal of this! volume, entitled, The three most popular names, Scott,i « Lights and Shadows ;"- volume Crabbe, Byron, still remain to be dis most indubitably full of exquisite pocussed. Each in his way has become etry-and of poetry which we do think a British classic of the first class ; and, ought not to have been written, at generally speaking, they are none of least a great part of it, in any thing them much spoken about, any more but verse. . than Dryden or Pope. Shakespeare, Our meaning is that in this book Spenser, Milton, still certainly stand for a book written in prose-the purely by themselves. But, perhaps, it would poetical materials bear too great a probe no easy matter to say, which is, at portion to the prosaic ; and it is this