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Scottish, were only two miles distant. On the next day the chiefs of both armies, having exhorted their troops, offered battle at the same time. They engaged, however, on the third day, and the conflict was continued with all the fury that hope, of victory, and ancient hatred could inspire. The Scottish having gained the day, Camus retreated with the remainder of his army to the neighbouring hills, with the intention of penetrating to Murray, and of joining those Danes that remained there, under Olave. But, being hotly pursued, he was overtaken about two miles distant from the field of battle, surrounded, and slain with all his followers. A monument still exists, erected in commemoration of the victory, and the tradition is farther corroborated by the circumstance of the adjacent country retaining the name of Camus.”

As this incursion of the Danes took place about the latter end of the reign of Malcolm, the author has thought proper to introduce into his tale, the two well known characters of Duncan and Macbeth, the grandsons of Malcolm. From the following statement this assumption will appear warranted. According to Buchanan, Malcolm was slain in Glammis Castle, in 1034, Duncan in 1040; leaving six years for the duration of Duncan's reign. But, as Duncan had children arriyed at man's estate, when he was murdered, it may be inferred, that he was capable of entering the ranks of war, during this incursion of the Danes. It may also be presumed, that Macbeth, the cousin of Duncan, and his chief captain during his short reign, and according to historians, a man of vast abilities for war, was also capable of sustaining a conspicuous part in the battles which were fought, on this occasion,

As Buchanan also mentions, that Duncan married the daughter of Siward, Duke of Northumberland-in order to diversify the tale, the author has taken advantage of this circumstance, and endeavoured to exalt, and invigorafe the soft and unwarlike character of Duncan, by displaying the workings of those generous feelings in bis breast, which love inspires,

With no other guides, at the time of the composition of this tale, than the history of Buchanan, and the traditions of the places which he visited, the author has found,

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since he had the opportunity of inspecting Boethius, that several of his narrations differ from the traditions handed down by that ancient historian. In one instance, however, he agrees with him, though contrary to Buchanan,--- that the Danes burned, and laid waste every castle, town, and village which they attacked in their incursion. But these circumstances must weigh little with the reader.--- We do not speak of facts, but of traditions ; and the traditions prevalent in our day, are as worthy of belief as those common in the days of Boethius.

56 Tall and robust the form of Duncan rose,
The bloom of youth shone on his manly face,
And in the lustre of his eye was seen
The beam of mild humanity, and love.
To him the warrior's shout, the dying groan,
The trump of vict'ry, gave no stern delight;
The garment roll'd in blood, the flaming cot,
The woes, the mis'ry of a peaceful land
O'erbalanced in his patriotic mind,
The direful glory of the victor's reign.
Yet he was bold when Scotland's ruthless foes
Destruction threaten'd to her peaceful fields;
And Malcolm smil'd to see his Grandsire's sword
Gleam foremost in the ranks of hostile Danes.

He Ella lov'd, fair child of Siward brave,
The powerful Duke of wide Northumberland;
And oft within her faithful bosom swell'd
The secret sigh of love in pure return;
Nor did their passion lack encouragement;
For now, their sires, in ancient friendship bound,
Long'd to consolidate by holy chain,
The happy union of their children's love;
Each day young Duncan sped his trusty page,
To Tay's wide mouth, for tidings of his love;
Oft did he chide the winds for long delay;
And, stealing from the tumult of the feast,
That ill accorded with his anxious heart,
He sought, amid the solitudes around,
To soothe his soul, by wand'ring through the sconOS
Where Ella once had shar'd the happy hour,
Swift flying o'er their heads, in converse sweet ;
Oft by the silver stream that winds its way

From mountain grey, by darksome piger o'erhung,
Or deep within the den be rov'd alone ;
Or by the cat'ract's foot his course he staid,
Where headlong pours the stream its foaming tide,
Thrice broken in its fall, by trees embower'd,
Which bide the glitt'ring day, and spread around
A pleasing gloom that fills the lover's soul
With pensive reverie, or with rapt'rous dreams.
'Twas here he sat, and thought of those bright days,
Those happy days he spent in Warkworth Hall,
Where Ella, in her beauty as the moon,
Amid the stars, presided, and drew all
Th' adoring eyes of young and gallant Thanes ::
Fair sight indeed to him ! for he, alone,
Drew homage from those eyes to which the rest
Swore fealty; now to that happy time
His fancy wings, when, 'mid admiring Thanes,
And Scotland's blooming maids, the holy priest
Should bless their plighted faith--then should he live
Amid the sunshine of unclouded joy,
And feel the rapture that true love inspires
Within each heart, as the soft breeze of spring,
That breathes around the tender daffodil,
And fills its bosom with increasing sweets.”

66>Tis our's to spare
Our people's blood the riches of our state.
That king, who follows every passion's sway,
Revenge, or love of pow'r, or love of fame,
Regardless of his subjects lives, or weal,
Their present comfort, and their future peace,
Tho' he should stand victorious on each field,
Is not his people's friend-by passion blind,
He holds them, but as tools by fortune lent,
To work his fatal ends-the toil, the woe,
The sufferings of the man, he sees not then-
The anguish of the heart, the indigence,
And all the evils that surround the bed
Of aged father, weeping wife, or child,
In lonely cottage left, the parent slain,
Ne'er come within the vision of his mind,
Since we are forc'd to war, and blood must flow
To guard our smiling fields, and well lov'd friends;
Let us each 'vantage seize, nor sport, the wbile,

The blood of Scotland's sons in per'lous fray,
To add a ray of glory to our crown.
The Dane hath come, at venture, on our coast,
With sanguine hopes of ravage uncontrould;
No hand, but feeble hand of maiden fair,
No head, but hoary head of trembling age,
They thought to meet as guardians of our flocks
Thus far they've pierc'd within our happy land,
And spread around their steps the scathing fire;
And farther must they pierce, or famine gaunt,
Will smite their wasteful limbs.---They cannot fly
Uncheck'd, for by to-morrow's eve, secur'd
By trench and mound, a powerful band, in
Shall curb their stolen flight :-on right the sea
Dashing o'er ridged rocks-on left the hill
Dark with entangling woods, and ambush'd men,
Shall force them in despair to face our swords,
And yield their throats to our revengeful steel.”


The HOUSE of MOURNING. A Poem under this title, the production of

Mr. John Scott, Editor of the Champion, ' A Visit to Paris,' and other Works,

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The Author deplores the death of his son, and his strains are characterised by natural and energetic feeling, by adequate tenderness and force of expression, and by an elevation of mind that shews his capability of achieving works of greater extent and higher importance. The following extracts cannot prove unacceptable to every Reader susceptable of true taste and pathetie sentiment:

66 We'll find relief in sense of deep enduring,
We'll seek delight in thinking ill past euring;
And we will show allegiance to our child,
Fix'd as his love for us, --changeless and mild :

Hours, days, and months, and years, shall pass away,
His sightly form, now stiffen’d, shall decay,
His eyes our pride, his limbs our decent care,
His gentle mouth, his clean and silky hair,
His round and restless hands, that warm'd and slid
In ours,-his feet still running where we bid, -
His arms that drew him to his mother's breast,
His lips that kiss'd her when he went to rest,
The graceful, tender, carriage of his joy,
When she came forth, led by her darling boy,
Who, as the morning grew, and she lay sleeping,
Was looking, listening, and on tiptoe creeping,
Restless, yet checking his solicitude,
Lest aught should reach her of disturbance rude,---
Then springing like a bird, when gleam'd her eye,
That her first sight on his blest smile might lie.

This picture is exquisitely drawn. The following passage is highly poetical.

At last it came, ---and something told its coming!
As midnight drew, we heard, or felt a humming,
As if on muffled wheels approached a Power
That could dismay our souls, and blot the hour!
We knew a fatal Presence in the room,
And knew that it was come to take our boy ;
From shadowy wings there seemd to spread a gloon
To make existence pant, and smother joy:
A freezing instinct told us Deatb was near;
Our hearts shriek'd inwardly in mortal fear;
Yet we were mute,--and on the sufferer's bed
We threw ourselves, and held bis breathing head ;-
Held him, as one who drowns holds to the sand,
That crumbles as he clings ---and falls about his hand.


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We mark'd the time, and shuddering said 'twas well,
That sulky midnight struck the fatal knell,---
And that, while others took their joy, or sleep,
We o'er his corse a chilly watch should keep :
We fac'd the blast the more we felt it pierce,
And dar'd the lightning as we saw it fierce.
We hugg'd ourselves that we had not one face
To look to now, in this great foreign place:
And when we thought of home, 'twas with a start,
As if it were the world's detested part-

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