The Literary chronicle and weekly review

accompanied in their flight by Julio | drawn characters we ever witnessed,
(Mr. Barnard), a faithful friend. They was very unequally sustained by Mrs.
are beset by a gang of banditti, West. Mr. Cooper undertook the
against whom they make a despe- character of Orsinio against his wish,
rate resistance, until the swords of the as old characters are not his forte.
bandits are arrested by their leader, The tragedy was completely successful,
who is recognized by Lorenzo as his and that too under every disadvantage.
depraved tutor, Alfero. At this mo- For justice was not done to the author
ment, a party of soldiers arrive, and in the performance; and the manner in
take the whole gang prisoners. Alfero which it has been got up is disgraceful
charges Lorenzo to save his life, and to the managers of the theatre.
the lives of his associates, by inter- There was not a single new scene, nor
ceding with the senate, and threatens, a new article of costume in the piece.
if he fail to do so, to make a disclosure The tragedy is the first production of
affecting his life and honour. Lorenzo Mr. James Haines, a gentleman whose
had, it appears, in an unguarded mo- name, though hitherto little known in
ment, consented to the proposition of the literary world, cannot longer re-
Antonio, to poison his unprincipled main in obscurity, after the proof he
guardian. Lorenzo's attempted inter- has given of possessing such splendid
cession fails, and Alfero, to save his talents. The prologue was spoken by
own life, discloses his secret to Orsinio, Mr. Cooper, and the epilogue by Mrs.
who, for the purpose of revenge on Lo- Edwin.
renzo, obtains the respite of the ban-
dits. Orsinio and Alfero go to seize
on Lorenzo, who finds means to secure
them, in consequence of which he
is charged of murdering the former,
and even Elmira is accused of being
Lorenzo can bear no
more, be hastens to vindicate his wife
by the acknowledgment of his own
guilt, and determined that when his
shame begins, the world shall end,
takes poison; his wife dying before
him, broken-hearted, on hearing of his
guilt.

an accessary.

No tragedy was ever more independent of stage effect than this; there were no clap-traps, no artificial appeals, but the story developed itself naturally and smoothly. The malignant passions have little to do in the story which portrays the softer emotions of the heart. The language is of a very superior character, and possesses much poetic merit. There were several passages which might be quoted as models of excellence, and, though we dare not trust to our memory in recording them, we cannot omit one, the force and beauty of which every one must feel. It is when Lorenzo is urged to resentment, and declares he will wait until that period,

• When the graves are opened, And the cold populace of buried nations Stalk to the general doom.' In another passage, where the despotism of the grave, over successful ambition in every walk of life, is illustrated, there is a faithful appropriation of metaphor and a tone of philosophy worthy of our best dramatists. Mr. Wallack, in Lorenzo, was very successful; but Elmira, one of the finest

The

ecution. Mr. C. Kemble's Don John
is one of his best performances in that
line, in which he is so excellent, gay
and genteel comedy. The other cha-
racters were well sustained. The mu-
sic is partly selected and partly origi-
nal, or rather adaptations from the Ita-
lian operas, by Bishop and Ware, but
does not possess much merit.
drama is got up with the utmost taste
and splendour of scenery, and it was
completely successful, though not to
the extent the following disgraceful
puff in the play-bill would have us be-
lieve. Drury Lane does pretty well in
puffing, but this really out-herods He-
rod, and deserves the severest reprehen-
sion. Ecce signum; Don John, or the
two Violettas, was received throughout
with roars of laughter and shouts of
applause-and the acting of Mr. C.
Kemble, Mr. Liston, Mr. Jones, Mr.
Abbott, &c. &c., was hardly surpassed
even in the days of GARRICK.-The
music absolutely enchanted and elec-
trified the audience (almost every piece
being encored); and whilst Miss Ste-
phens, in the second Violetta, so ex-
ceeded all her former successful efforts
as to add another laurel even to her bigh
reputation. Miss Hallande, in the first
Violetta, made as TRIUMPHANT a DE-
BUT, as ever was made by any singer
on the English stage!'

A new farce was produced at this theatre on Friday night, entitled A Figure of Fun, but the audience saw no fun in it, and very unceremoniously damned it the first night.

COVENT GARDEN.-On Tuesday night, Beaumont and Fletcher's excellent comedy of The Chances was performed at this theatre, in an operatic form, under the title of Don John, or The Two Violettas. The success which has attended similar alterations of The Twelfth Night, and The Comedy of Errors, and the consciousness that the company is stronger in opera than in comedy, have, no doubt, induced the managers to revive this old play in its present shape. The principal attraction of the evening was the appearance of Miss Hallande, as the first Violetta, and, we are happy to say, she met with a most flattering reception. Destitute of the charms of a fine face or person, SURREY THEATRE.-Mr. Dibdin's the deportment of the fair debutante new melo-drama of Kenilworth imwas not ungraceful. She possesses a proves on acquaintance. Some of the fine voice, and a correctness of ear rare- scenes have been shortened, and the acly witnessed in one whose talents are tors have become more intimately acyet imperfectly developed, and whose quainted with their parts, which the ramusical education is yet incomplete. pidity of Mr. D.'s motions allows them Although she was extremely embarras- little time to study. It attracts fased in her first two songs, yet she dis-shionable audiences every night, and played such gleams of skill and power promises a long and successful career. in their execution, as decided, even thus early, her success. Her third song was Shield's favourite air of The Maid of Lodi,' arranged for her by Diminution of the Sun.-Baron LinMr. Ware, and which she gave with deneau, who recently published some great success. She sung two duets observations respecting the diminution with Miss Stephens, both in excellent of the solar mass, says, 'that the sun style; and gave such proofs of musi- may be imperceptibly subject to succal talents, as to place her in a high cessive diminution, since the science of rank among English singers. Miss astronomy has been cultivated. Baron Stephens, in the second Violetta, dis- Lindeneau supposes the sun's diameter played her accustomed supremacy. A to be 800,000 miles, 4,204,000,000 song introduced from the beautiful feet, or nearly 2000 seconds. We have French opera of Chaperon Rouge, she not,' he observes, hitherto possessed sang in a most enchanting style, as any instrument for measuring the diashe did a bravura of more difficult ex-meter of heavenly bodies to a second.

Literature and Science.

The sun may, therefore, diminish Mrs. Kemble: this collection was pur12,000 of its diameter, or 2,102,000 chased, by Sir Gregory Page Turner, feet, without the possibility of its being for 180 guineas. A collection of early perceived. Supposing the sun to di- printed Spanish comedies were sold to minish daily, two feet, it would require Mr. Heber for 35 guineas. Shakethree thousand years to render the di-speare's comedies, histories, and trage'minution of a secoud of its diameter vi- dies, first edition, inlaid throughout, sible. were bought, by Mr. Boswell, at the New Comet.-Signor Pons, astrono-immense sum of 107 guineas, although mer to the Duchess of Lucca, disco- it was not a very superb copy.

vered, on the 21st of last month, between six and seven at night, in the constellation Pegasus, a new coinet, of a very extraordinary nature. It appears like a white spot, not thick nor of a kernal form, and with a very small tail. On the 22d Signor Pons coutinued his observations, and perceived that the comet had not changed its position, but that its tail was becoming visible, and that its light had acquired greater intensity. He thence concluded that this comet will rapidly become more luminous, and to such a degree as to be visible to the naked eye. Astronomers have fixed its right ascension at 0° 30', and its northern declination at 18°, between the stars of the sixth magnitude, X and u of Pegasus.

Antidote to Inebriety.-Dr. Petier, a German physician, states that he has found the spirit of hartshorn, in the dose of a small tea-spoonful in a glass of water, to encounter the inebriating effects of strong fermented liquors and spirits; and in an hour or two to recover a person from an apparently lifeless state, through excess of wine.

Mr. Kemble's Library.-The sale of Mr. Kemble's library, at Evans's, produced about 3000l. This is independent of the valuable collection of plays, which had been previously sold to the Duke of Devonshire, for 20001. The sale excited little interest with the Bibliomaniacs; there were, however, a few rare articles, and these called forth all the spirit and enthusiasm of the collectors. Syr Degore,' a poetical ronance of great rarity, consisting of eighteen leaves, and printed by Wynkyn de Worde, produced 361. 10s. Here begynneth a lytall Treatyse of the byrth and prophecye of Martin,' a poem, printed by Wynkyn de Worde, 'Chaucer's 25 guineas and a half. Canterbury Tales,' a MS. of the 14th or 15th century, 20 guineas and a half. A collection of Drury Lane and Covent Garden Play-bills, from the year 1751 to the present time. The early volumes contain some curious MS. notes by Mr. Kemble, many relating to Garrick, from the unpublished diary of Hopkins the prompter, the father of

Eptiaph, on a Gentlemen whose Name was Hatt

By Death's impartial scythe was mown
Poor Hatt-he lies beneath this stone;
On hin misfortune oft did frown,
Yet Hatt ne'er wanted for a crown;
When many years of constant wear
Had made his beaver somewhat bare,
Death saw, and pitying his mishap,
Has given him here a good long nap.
City Worthies.

Late to the worthy Drapers' dinner came

A non.descript, in whom no hurt is ;
None could explain its origin or name,
Than,- What a food-devouring Cur-'tis?
A Sheriff wanted to obtain his seat,

But he had grown so heavy with his treat,
And at the other's poll was straight, man;
The city meaters chose him forļa Weight-man.

TO READERS & CORRESPONDENTS.

The communications of D., Alpheus, W., and

Mentor, are received.

The three customs which J. G. D. condemns, are all illegal.

We thank Academicus for his letter; but as we do not wish to be severe on the reverend gentleman, we shall let the subject rest at present.

for the omission of several articles intended for We have to apologize to our correspondents insertion. To the rapidly increasing patronage which the Literary Chronicle is obtaining, we have also an increase of correspondents, many of whose favours are yet under consideration.

Crilov' read Krilov; p. 111, c. 1, 1.51, after Errata in our last, p. 104, c. 1, 1. 35, for knowledge,' add and beauty.'

ELGIN AND PHIGALIAN MARBLES.

This day is published, neatly stitched and hotpressed, price 1s. 6d., embellished with an accurate View of the two Pediments of the Parthenon,

A BRIEF DESCRIPTION of the Marbles collected by Lord Elgin at Athens, &c.; also of the Phigalian Marbles, now deposited in the British Museum. Arranged, conformably the Museum. with the numbers, as they are now placed in

The whole compiled, from the best authorities, by J. COOMBE LASKEY, Esq., Member of the Wernerian Society, L. S. H. I. &c.

Published by Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, Paternoster Row; Hebert, Cheapside; Harwood or Norton, Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury; and to be had of all Booksellers. MEMOIR of Mrs. DYOTT, written by herself, with a striking likeness of the Author; accounting for her separation from General Dyott, with various letters of the General

and other personages, with this motto: 'Patience is the surest remedy against calum

nies :

Time, soon or late, discovers the truth.'

This work is replete with portraits of attornies; among others, James Hartley, of New Bridge Street, and Thomas M'Kiernon, of the house of

Slade, Bedford, and Slade, Doctors' Commons. A word is said of Randle Jackson, Esq., Barrister at Law; with remarks on the testimony of Robert Thompson, Esq., of South Audley

Street; Colonels Dale and Disbrowe, &c. Printed for W. Wright, 46, Fleet Street, in royal 8vo. price 2s.

NEW NOVEL. SUCH IS THE WORLD. A Novel, Just published, price 21s.

in Three Vols. 12mo.

'I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage where every man must play his part.' Merchant of Venice. The characters in this novel, which embrace" all ranks and degrees of men," from a duke down to the hostler of an inn, are drawn with a fidelity and correctness, which none but a person who has mixed much in the world could have sketched. Another merit this novel possesses, in which we should be happy to see every work of the kind resemble it; we mean, that of having a good moral tendency. There are no coarse ribaldries-no indecent allusions-no double entendres, to raise a blush on vice are so faithfully pourtrayed, thatwe do not the cheek of youthful innocence. Virtue and fear our juvenile friends choosing the former for the model of their future conduct in life.'Literary Chronicle, Jun. 27.

Printed for G. and W. B. WHITTAKER, 13, Ave-Maria Lane.

In the press, and will be published in a few days, 1. The LEGEND of ARGYLE. A Novel, In three vols. 12mo.

2. The LIFE of a BOY. A Tale.

vols. 12mo.

In two

3. FAVOURITE of NATURE. A Novel. DeIn three vols. 12mo. dicated (by permission) to Mrs. Joanna Baillie

London:-Published by J. Limbird, 355, Strand, two doors East of Exeter Change; where advertisements are received, and communications for the Editor' (post paid) are to be addressed. Sold also ters and Newsvenders-Printed by Davidson, Old by Souter, 73, St. Paul's Church Yard; Chapple, Pall Mall; Grapel, Liverpool; and by all Booksel

Boswell Court, Curey Street.

And Weekly Review;

Forming an Analysis and General Repository of Literature, Philosophy, Science, Arts, History, the Drama, Morals, Manners, and Amusements.

This Paper is published early every Saturday Morning; and is forwarded Weekly, or iu Monthly or Quarterly Parts, throughout the British Dominions.

No. 94.

LONDON, SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1821.

Review of New Books.

Our

author is, however, no servile copyist,
and, in every other respect, these le-
gends have every claim to originality.

The first legend, Wallace,' is founded on a story rendered familiar to every reader. The incidents in the events of the Scottish hero, are faithfully narrated in this poem, which is remarkable for its beauty and simplicity. The third stanza thus describes Scotland, under the iron yoke of our Edward :

display such portraitures of real worth and noble heroism, as might awaken high and generous feelings in a youthMetrical Legends of Exalted Charac-ful mind, without imputing to the heters. By Joanna Baillie, Author of roes motives or sentiments beyond Plays on the Passions, &c. 8vo. pp. what their noble deeds do fairly war373. London, 1821. rant.' In short, the aim has been to THIS volume was published on Tues-produce sentimental and descriptive day last; and, in respect to the esteem-memorials of exalted worth. The maned author, and duty to our readers, ner of the rhyme and the versification we lose no time in making them ac- are accordingly, in some degree, borquainted with its contents. Few writ-rowed from Sir Walter Scott. ers of the present day, either male or female, have obtained a higher reputation than Joanna Baillie, and none more deservedly. In this respect criticism has been unanimous, and the notices of her previous productions have been nothing but eulogies. Public opinion has long been with her, and, if we may credit the report, the publishers of this volume must have calculated very largely on it, when they purchased it at the enormous sum of £1000, which, we suppose, is at the rate of about half a crown for each line in the volume. This is certainly the golden age for poets. What would Milton say, could he rise and see a modern bard get as much for one hundred lines as he got for the whole twelve books of his immortal poem, the Paradise Lost; or would Dryden, in the present day, have thrown in his Epistle to his Cousin, and the celebrated music ode, as make-weights to the avarice of a Tonson: and yet it is no libel to say, that these productions of Milton and Dryden will live when many of the effusions of our liberally-rewarded poets are forgotten.

The Metrical Legends' are three in number: William Wallace, Columnbus, and Lady Griseld Baillie. The term metrical legends is not here used as denoting fictitious stories, but as chronicles or memorials of exalted cha racters, describing such scenes as truly belong to the story, with occasionally the feelings, figures, and gestures of those whose actions they relate, and also assigning their motives of action, as they may naturally be supposed to have existed. The object of the au thor, we are further told, has been ' to VOL. II

Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd
her sword,

Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer,
And sunk beneath the Southern's faithless lord,
In sullen deep despair.

The holds and castles of the land
Were by her hateful foemen mann'd.
To revels in each stately hall,
Did tongues of foreign accent call,
Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear
From braggard pride the taunting jeer.
Her harvest fields, by strangers reap'd,
Were in the stranger's garner heapXd.

The tenant of the poorest cot,
Seeing the spoiler from his door
Bear unreproved his hard-earned store,
Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot.
The very infant at his mother's beck,

Tho' with writh'd lip and scowling eye,
Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in
check,

Nor curse the Southern passing by.'
The slaughter of the Scottish lead-
ers at the Barns of Ayr, Wallace's re-
venge of the treachery, the gathering
of his friends, and the battle that en-
sued, are all powerfully described.
We quote a few passages from the lat
ter:-

"Now with notes of practis'd skill,
English trumpets sounding shrill,
The battle's boastful prelude give,
Which answer prompt and bold receive
From Scottish drum's long rolling beat,
And, sound to valiant clansmen sweet!-

Price 6d.

Who did, ere close of ev'ning, lie
With ghastly face turn'd to the sky,
No more again the rouse of war to hear.
And many for the combat burn'd,
Who never from its broil return'd,

Kindred or home to cheer.
How short the term that shall divide
The firm nerv'd youths' exerted force,→
The warrior glowing in his pride,

From the cold stiffen'd corse!
A little term pass'd with such speed,
As would in courtly revel scarce suffice
Mated with lady fair, in silken guise,"
The measur'd dance to lead.
His warriors firm as living rock,
Now braced them for the battle's shock;
And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks
glancing

From marshall'd clans to foes advancing;
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd,
Glow'd with the glow his brow that bright-
ten'd:

But when his burnish'd brand he drew,
His towering form terrific grew,

And every Scotchman, at the sight,
Felt thro' his nerves a giant's might,
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace
wight.'

Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes,
And loud o'er drum and warpipe rose

The battle's mingled roar.
The eager shout, the weapon's clash;
The adverse rank's first closing crash,
The sullen hum of striving life,
The busy heat of trampling strife,
From castle, rocks, and mountains round,
Down the long firth, a grand and awful
sound,

A thousand echoes bore.
Spears cross'd spears, a bending grove,
As front to front the warriors strove.
Thro' the dust-clouds, rising dun,
Their burning brands flash'd to the sun,
With quickly changing shiv'ring light,
Like streamers on the northern night;
While arrow showers came hustling past,
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast,
What time fierce winter is contending,
With Norway's pines, their branches rend-
ing.'

'Opposing ranks, that onward bore,
In tumult mix'd, are ranks no more,
Nor aught discern'd of skill or form;-
All a wild bick'ring steely storm!
I-9

While oft around some fav'rite Chieftain's crest,
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose,
As on rough seas the billow grows,

O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon deprest.

So gallant Grame, thou noble Scot!
Around thee rose the fearful fray,
And other brave compeers of bold essay,
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that day,
And ne'er shall be forgot.

But where the mighty Wallace fought,
Like spirit quick, like giant strong,
Plunging the foes thick ranks among,
Wide room in little time was hew'd
And grizly sights around were strew'd;
Recoil'd aghast the helmed throng,
And every hostile thing to earth was brought.
Full strong and hardy was the foe
To whom he gave a second blow,
Many a knight and lord
Fell victims to his sword,
And Cressingham's proud crest laid low.'
The fate of Wallace, so unworthy
his high deserts, and the fond recollec-
tions with which his countrymen che-
rish his memory, are pathetically de-
scribed:-

What tho' that head o'er gate or tower,
Like felons on the cursed tree,

Visited by sun and shower,

A ghastly spectacle may be!
A fair renown, as years wear on,
Shall Scotland give her noblest son.
The course of ages shall not dim
The love that she shall bear to him,
In many a castle, town, and plain,
Mountain and forest, still remain
Fondly cherish'd spots, which claim..
The proud distinction of his honour'd name.
Swells the huge ruin's massy heap
In castled court, 'tis Wallace's keep.
What stateliest o'er the rest may lower

Of time-worn wall, where rook and daw,
With wheeling flight and ceaseless caw,
Keep busy stir, is Wallace's tower.
If thro' the green wood's hanging screen,
High o'er the deeply-bedded wave,
The mouth of arching cleft is seen

Yawning dark, 'tis Wallace's cave.
If o'er its jutting barrier grey,

Tinted by time with furious din,
The rude crags silvered with its sprey,

Shoot the wild flood, 'tis Wallace's lin. And many a wood remains, and hill and glen Haunted, 'tis said, of old, by Wallace and his

men.

There school-boy still doth haunt the sacred ground,

And musing oft its pleasing influence own,
As, starting at his footsteps' echo'd sound,
He feels himself alone.

Yea, ev'n the cottage matron at her wheel,
Altho' with daily care and labour crost,
Will o'er her heart the soothing magic feel,
And of her country's ancient prowess boast;
While on the little shelf of treasured books,

For what can most of all her soul delight, Beyond her ballad, tále, or jest, she looks,The history renown'd of Wallace wight. But chiefly to the soldier's breast,

A thought of him will kindling come,
As, waving high his bonnet's crest,
He listens to the rolling drum,
And trumpet's call and thrilling fife,
And bagpipe's loud and stormy strain,

Meet prelude to tumultuous strife

On the embattled plain. Whether in highland garb array'd, With Kirtle short and highland plaid, Or button'd close in lowland vest, Within his doughty grasp, broad sword or gun be prest,

Rememb'ring him, he still maintains His country's cause on foreign plains, To grace her name and earn her praise, Led by the brave of modern days.' After an apostrophe to those modern heroes, Abercrombie, Moore, Ferguson, and Graham, the poem concludes with the following eulogy on its hero:

'O Scotland, proud may be thy boast! Since Time his course thro' circling years hath

run,

There hath not shone in Fame's bright host, A nobler hero than thy patriot son. Manly and most devoted was the love, With which for thee unweariedly he strove; No selfish lust of power, not ev'n of fame, Gave ardour to the pure and generous flame. Rapid in action, terrible in fight,

In counsel wise, inflexible in right, Was he, who did so oft, in olden days, Thy humbled head from base oppression raise. Then be it by thy generous spirit known,

Ready in freedom's cause to bleed, Spurning corruption's worthless meed, That in thy heart thou feel'st this hero was thine own.'

He saw them like a helpless flock,
Who soon must bear the cruel shock
Of savage wolves; yet, reckless still,
Feel but the pain of present ill.
He saw the fate he could not now control,
And groan'd in bitter agony of soul.'

The last return to Europe of this intrepid navigator, his death, and the reflections on his tomb, are finely described: :

At length, by way-ward fortune crost,

And oft-renew'd and irksome strife

Of sordid men,- by tempests tost,

And tir'd with turmoil of a wand'rer's life, He sail'd again for Europe's ancient shore,— So will'd high heav'n to cross the seas no more. His anchor fix'd, his sails for ever furl'd,— A toil-worn pilgrim in a weary world. And thus the hero's sun went down, Closing his day of bright renown: Eight times thro' breeze and storm he past, O'er surge and wave th' Atlantic vast; And left on many an island fair, Foundations, which the after-care Of meaner chieftains shortly rear'd To seats of power-serv'd, envy'd, fear'd. No kingly conqueror, since time began The long career of ages, hath to man A scope so ample given for trade's bold range, Or caus'd on earth's wide stage such rapid mighty change.'..

The reflections on the tomb of Co

lumbus close this beautiful poem :

Doth in that hall of death her empire keep; Save when at times the hollow pavement, By solitary wand'rer's foot, amain

smote

From lofty dome and arch and aisle remote, A circling loud response receives again. And sees the blazon'd trophies waving nearThe stranger starts to hear the growing sound,

"Ha! tread my feet so near that sacred ground?"

He stops and bows his head : « Columbus rest

eth here!"

The hero of the second legend is Columbus, whom the author justly de-Silence solemn, awful, deep, scribes as one who, to the unfettered reach of thought belonging to a philo. sopher, the sagacious intrepidity of a chieftain or leader, and the adventurous boldness of a discoverer, added the gèntleness and humanity of a Christian.' The most prominent incidents, in the life of Columbus, furnish ample scope for the powers of our author; and the adventurous project-the voyage-the dissatisfaction of the crew-the discovery of America-the intercourse with the natives-Columbus foretelling the eclipse-his return home, and the ingratitude of his country, are all deli-Till wrapp'd in fancy's wild delusive dream, neated with the pencil of a master:---Who that hath high deeds achieved, Whose mind hath mighty plans conceiv'd, Can of learned ignorance and pride The petty vexing rule abide ? The lion trampled by an ass! No; this all-school'd forbearance would surpass. Insulted with a felon's chain,

Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his home He launch his vent'rous bark, will hither come, Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name, With feelings keenly touch'd-with heart of flame;

Times past and long forgotten, present seem; To his charm'd ear the east wind rising shrill, Seems thro' the hero's shroud to whistle' still,— The clock's deep pendulum, swinging thro' the blast,

Sounds like the rocking of his lofty mast; While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band, Mix'd with the accents of his high command. Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene, And burns and sighs and weeps to be

has been.

what he

Oh! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start, And vow, with lifted hands outspread, Like them to act a noble part?

Oh! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!

When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be,

Sunk in oblivion's murky bed,
A desert bare, a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,-
The lofty marks of what hath been.
O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When mem'ry of the mighty dead

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

A twinkling speck but fix'd and bright, To guide us thro' the dreary night,Each hero shines and lures the soul, To gain the distant happy goal. For is there one who, musing o'er the grave Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave, Can poorly think, beneath the mould'ring heap, That noble being shall for ever sleep?

No, saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly swells,

"Tho' his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells."'

The subject of the third legend is a woman, whose name is unknown in history, a Lady Griseld Baillie. Our author says, that a more perfect female character could scarcely be imagined; and, indeed, she appears to have approached that divine perfection of a woman,' mentioned by Shakespeare, more nearly than any one with whose history we are acquainted. An interesting account of this lady, is inserted in Mr. Rose's answer to Mr. Fox's History of James the Second, from Lady Murray's Narrative, an unpublished MS. at Edinburgh, This poem, which combines much playfulness with strong feeling, describes the virtues of this glory of her sex, and concludes with contrasting her with the polish'd fair of modern times,' who do not regard such old forgotten homely merit.'

To each of these legends, there are appended a profusion of notes; indeed, more than are necessary, for the author's poems are sufficiently intelligible, and the principal events which she details in the two first legends, sufficiently well known to render a reference to authorities unnecessary. Four ballads, entitled Lord John of the East, Malcolin's Heir, The Elden Tree, and the Ghost of Fadon, conclude the volume; they strongly re mind us of some of the best of our early English ballads, and though rather longer than we should have wished for extract, yet anxious to give an entire poem, we select the last, the Ghost of Fadon:'—

"On Gask's deserted ancient hall,

Was twilight closing fast,

And in its dismal shadows all

Seem'd lofty, void, and vast.

All sounds of life, now reft and bare,
From its walls had pass'd away;

But the stir of small birds shelter'd there,
Dull owl, or chatt'ring jay,

And their chief, the goodliest, the bravest man, Then from the east with fuller swell,
That e'er trod Scottish ground.

Then spoke forthwith the leader bold :--

"We war with wayward fate;

These walls are bare, the hearth is cold,
And all is desolate.

With fast unbroke and thirst unslak'd,

Or, like ghosts from vaulted charnel wak'd,
Must we on the hard ground sleep?
Our cheerless vigil keep?
Hard hap this day, in bloody field,

Ye bravely have sustain'd,
And for your pains this dismal bield
And empty board have gain'd,
Hie, Malcolm, to that varlet's steed,
And search if yet remain
Some homely store, but good at need,
Spent nature to sustain.
Cheer up my friends! still, heart in hand,
We are the pith of our native land,
Tho' few and spent we be,

And she shall still be free.

Cheer up, tho' scant and coarse our meal,

In this our sad retreat,-
We'll fill our horn to Scotland's weal,
And that will make it sweet."
Then all, full cheerly as they could,
Their willing service lent;

Was heard the bugle blast.

Out past three warriors more; then, shrill
The horn blew from the north,
And other eager warriors still,

As banded scouts went forth.
Till from their chief each war mate good
Had to the forest gone,

And he who fear'd not flesh and blood,
Stood by the fire alone.

He stood, wrapp'd in a musing dream,
Nor rais'd his drooping head,
Till a sudden, alter'd, paly gleam
On all around was spread.
Such dull diminish'd sombre sheen
From moon eclips'd, by swain
Related, or love herd is seen

O'er mantling hill and plain.
Then to the fitful fire he turn'd,

Which higher and brighter grew,
Till the flame like a baleful meteor burn'd
Of clear sulphureous blue.

Then wist the chief, some soul unblest,
Or spirit of power was near;
And his eyes adown the hall he cast,
Yet naught did there appear.

But he felt a strange unearthly breath
Upon the chill air borne ;

Some broke the boughs, some heap'd the wood, And he heard at the gate, like a blast of wrath,
Some struck the sparkling flint.
And a fire they kindled speedily,

And pavement, walls, and rafters high,

Where the hall's last fire had been;

In the rising blaze were seen.⠀
Red gleam on each tall buttress pour'd,

The lengthen'd hall along,
And tall and black behind them lower'd
Their shadows deep and strong.
The ceiling, ribb'd with massy oak,

From bick'ring flames below,-
As light and shadow o'er it broke,

Seem'd wav'ring to and fro'. Their scanty meal was on the ground, And they made the brown-horn circle round, Spread by the friendly light, As cheerly as they might. Some talk of horses, weapons, mail,—

Some of their late defeat

By treach'ry caus'd, and many a tale
Of Southron spy's retreat.

"Aye, well," says one," my sinking heart
Did some disaster bode,
When faithless Fadon's wily art
Beguil'd us on the road.

But well repaid by Providence,

Are such false deeds we see; He's had his rightful recompense, And cursed let him be."

The sound of Fadon's horn.
Owls, bats, and swallows, flutt'ring out
From hole and crevice flew,
Circling the lofty roof about,

As loud and long it blew.
His noble hound sprang from his lair,
The midnight rouse to greet,
Then, like a tímid trembling hare,
Couch'd at his master's feet.
Between his legs his drooping tail,
Like dog of vulgar race,
He hid, and, with strange piteous wail,
Look'd in his master's face.
The porch seem'd void, but vapour dim
Soon fill'd the lowering room,
Then was he aware of a figure grim,
Approaching thro' the gloom.
And striding as it onward came,
The vapour wore away;
Till it stood distinctly by the flame,
Like a form in the noon of day.

Well Wallace knew that form, that head,—
That throat unbraced and bare,
Mark'd deep with streaming circlet red,-
And he utter'd a rapid prayer.

But when the spectre rais'd its arm,
And brandish'd its glitt'ring blade,
That moment broke fear's chilly charm
On noble Wallace Isid.

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