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Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, And forests, where beside his leafy hold The sullen boar hath heard the distant

horn, And whets his tusks against the gnarled

thorn ; Palladian palace with its storied halls ; Fountains, where Love lies listening to

their falls ; Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy

span, And Nature makes her happy home

with man: Where many a gorgeous flower is duly

fed With its own rill, on its own spangled

bed, And wreathes the marble urn, or leans

its head, A mimic mourner, that with veil with

drawn Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the

dawn; Thine all delights, and every muse is

thine ; And more than all, the embrace and

intertwine Of all with all in gay and twinkling

dance !

AUTHOR

A LOVELY form there sate beside my

bed, And such a feeling calm its presence

shed, A tender love so pure from earthly

leaven, That I unnethe the fancy might con

trol, 'Twas my own spirit newly come from

heaven, Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! But ah! the change--It had not stirrd,

and yetAlas! that change how fain would I

forget! That shrinking back, like one that had

mistook ! That weary, wandering, disavowing

look ! 'Twas all another, feature, look, and

frame, And still, methought, I knew, it was

the same!

FRIEND

Mid gods of Greece and warriors of

romance, See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his

knees The new found roll of old Mæonides ; But from his mantle's fold, and near the

heart, Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet

smart !1 O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, Where half conceal'd, the eye of fancy

views Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all

gracious to thy muse! 1 I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio, where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Incomincið Racheo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzione con intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come 1 santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi cuori accendere." -(Coleridge.)

This riddling tale, to what does it be

long? Is’t history ? vision? or an idle song? Or rather say at once, within what

space Of time this wild disastrous change took place?

AUTHOR

Call it a moment's work and such it

seems) This tale's a fragment from the life of

dreams ; But say, that years matur'd the silent

strife, And 'tis a record from the dream of life.

1830. 1834,

SCOTT

LIST OF REFERENCES

EDITIONS

POETICAL WORKS, edited by William Minto, 2 volumes, Edinburgh, 1887-88. POETICAL WORKS, 1 volume, edited, with revision of text, by W. J. Rolfe, Boston, 1888. – POETICAL WORKS, edited by Andrew Lang, 6 volumes, 1902. POETICAL WORKS, 1 volume, edited by F. T. Palgrave, The Macmillan Co., 1866 (Globe Edition; not complete). — * COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS, 1 volume, edited by H. E. Scudder, The Houghton, Mifflin Co., 1900 (Cambridge Edition). POEMS, 1 volume, edited by J. Logie Robertson, Clarendon Press, 1906 (Oxford Edition). --JOURNAL, 1825-1832, 2 volumes, edited by David Douglas, Edinburgh, 1890. — FAMILIAR LETTERS, 2 volumes, edited by David Douglas, Edinburgh, 1894.

BIOGRAPHY ** LOCKHART (J. G.), Life of Sir Walter Scott, 1837.-*HUTTON (R. H.), Scott, 1878 (English Men of Letters Series). (Containing two chapters of excellent criticism on Scott as a poet.) – YONGE (C. D.), Scott, 1888 (Great Writers Series). - SAINTSBURY (George), Sir Walter Scott, 1897 (Famous Scots Series). — HUDSON (W. H.), Sir Walter Scott, 1901 (Scots Epoch Makers). — HUGHES (Mary A. W.), Letters and Recollections of Scott, Smith, Elder & Co., 1904. - NORGATE (G. Le G.), Life of Sir Walter Scott, Methuen, 1906. - JENKS (T.), In the Days of Scott, A. S. Barnes, 1906. —- *LANG (A.), Sir Walter Scott, 1906 (Literary Lives Series).

CRITICISM Ball (Margaret), Sir Walter Scott as a Critic, 1907. – BEERS (H. A.), English Romanticism in the Nineteenth Century, 1901. *BROOKE (Stopford A.), Studies in Poetry, 1907. - *CARLYLE (T.), Miscellanies, Vol. IV; from the London and Westminster Review, 1838. - CROCKETT (S. R.), The Scott Country, 1902. -- EMERSON (R. W.), Miscellanies. -- HAY (John), Addresses: Speech at the Unveiling of the Bust of Scott in Westminster Abbey, 1897. – Howells (W. D.), My Literary Passions, 1895. — Hugo (Victor), Littérature et Philosophie, 1834. - HUTTON (R. H.), Bri»f Literary Criticisms, 1906.

JEFFREY (Francis), Edinburgh Review, No. 23 (April, 1808), Art. 1, Marmion; No. 32, Art. 1, Lady of the Lake: No. 36, Art. 6, Vision of Don Roderick; No. 48, Art. 1, Lord of the Isles. Also in his Critical Essays.

KER (W. P.), Scott, in Chambers's Cyclopædia of English Literature, Vol. III, new edition, 1904. *LANG (A.), Letters to Dead Authors, 1886. LANG (A.). Essays in Little, 1891. LANG (A.), Poets' Country, 1907. - PRESCOTT (W. H.), Biographical and Critical Miscellanies, 1845. — *PalGRAVE (F. T.), Introduction to the Globe Edition, 1866. — *RUSKIN (John), Modern Painters, Part IV, Chap. 16 (especially sections 2245) and 17. *Ruskin (John), Fors Clavigera, Letters 31-34, 92. - SAINTSBURY (G.), Essays on English Literature, Second Series, 1895. *SHAIRP (J. C.), Aspects of Poetry: Homeric Spirit of Scott, 1881. – Smith (Goldwin), Scott's Poetry again; in the Atlantic, March, 1905. — STEPHEN (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. I, 1874, 1892. -- SWINBURNE (A. C.), Studies in Prose and Poetry, 1894. — SYMONS (Arthur), Was Sir Walter Scott à Poet; in the Atlantic, Nov., 1904. — SYMONS (Arthur), Romantic Movement in English Poetry, 1909. · WOODBERRY (G. E.), Great Writers, 1907; from McClure's Magazine, June, 1905.

104

SCOTT

WILLIAM AND HELEN ! “0, Mother, what is gone is gone,

What's lost forever lorn : Imitated from Bürger's Lenore. See Lock

Death, death alone can comfort me; hart's Life of Scott, Volume I, Chap. 7.

O had I ne'er been born !
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red :

O, break, my heart, 0, break at once! “Alas, my love, thou tarriest long !

Drink my life-blood, Despair ! () art thou false or dead ?"

No joy remains on earth for me,

For me in heaven no share."
With gallant Frederick’s princely power
He sought the bold crusade,

“O, enter not in judgment, Lord !” But not a word from Judah's wars

The pious mother prays ; Told Helen how he sped.

• Impute not guilt to thy frail child ! She knows not what she

says. With Paynim and with Saracen

“O, say thy pater-noster, child ! At length a truce was made,

o, turn to God and grace ! And every knight returned to dry

His will, that turned thy bliss to bale, The tears his love had shed.

Can change thy bale to bliss." Our gallant host was homeward bound

“O mother, mother, what is bliss ? With many a song of joy ;

O mother, what is bale ? Green waved the laurel in each plume,

My William's love was heaven on earth, The badge of victory.

Without it earth is hell. And old and young, and sire and son, “Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, To meet them crowd the way,

Since my loved William's slain ? With shouts and mirth and melody, I only prayed for William's sake, The debt of love to pay.

And all my prayers were vain." Full many a maid her true-love met, “0, take che sacrament, my child. And sobbed in his embrace,

And check these tears that flow ; And fluttering joy in tears and smiles By resignation's humble prayer, Arrayed full many a face.

O, hallowed be thy woe !” Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad,

“ No sacrament can quench this fire, She sought the host in vain ;

Or slake this scorching pain; For none could tell her William's fate,

No sacrament can bid the dead If faithless or if slain.

Arise and live again. The martial band is past and gone;

“O, break, my heart, O, break at once !

Be thou my god, Despair ! She rends her raven hair,

Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me, And in distraction's bitter mood

And vain each fruitless prayer." She weeps with wild despair.

“ 0, enter not in judgment, Lord, “O, rise, my child,” her mother said, With thy frail child of clay ! “Nor sorrow thus in vain ;

She knows not what her tongue has A perjured lover's fleeting heart

spoke ; No tears recall again."

Impute it not, I pray !

" Forbear, iny child, this desperate woe,

And turn to God and grace ; Well can devotion's heavenly glow

Convert thy bale to bliss." “ () mother, mother, whát is bliss ?

O mother, what is bale ? Without my William what were heaven,

Or with him what were hell ?

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom,

Upbraids each sacred power, Till, spent, she sought her silent room,

All in the lonely tower. She beat her breast, she wrung her

hands, Till sun and day were o'er, And through the glimmering lattice

shone The twinkling of the star. Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell

That o'er the moat was hung;
And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards

The hoof of courser rung.
The clank of echoing steel was heard

As off the rider bounded ;
And slowly on the winding stair

A beavy footstep sounded.
And hark ! and hark ! a knock -- tap!

tap! A rustling stifled noise ;Door-latch and tinkling staples ringi

At length a whispering voice. " Awake, awake, arise, my love!

How, Helen, dost thou fare? Wak'st thou, or sleep'st I laugh'st thou,

or weep'st? Hast thought on me, my fair ? “My love! my love !--so late by night!

I waked, I wept for thee; Much have I borne since dawn of morn;

Where, William, couldst thou be ?” “ We saddle late--from Hungary

I rode since darkness fell ;
And to its bourne we both return

Before the matin-bell."

“Let the wind howl through hawthorn

bush ! This night we must away ;. The steed is wight, the spur is bright;

I cannot stay till day.' “Busk, busk, and boune! Thou mount'st

behind Upon my black barb steed : O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles,

We haste to bridal bed." * To-night-to-night a hundred miles !

O dearest William, stay! The bell strikes twelve-dark, dismal

hour ! O, wait, my love, till day!” “ Look here, look here--the moon shines

clearFull fast I ween we ride : Mount and away! for ere the day

We reach our bridal bed. “ The black barb snorts, the bridle

rings; Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee: The feast is made, the chamber spreal,

The bridal guests await thee.” Strong love prevailed : she busks, she

bounes, She mounts the barb behind, And round her darling William's waist

Her lily arms she twined.
And, hurry! hurry ! off they rode,

As fast as fast might be ;
Spurned from the courser's thundering

heels The flashing pebbles flee. And on the right and on the left,

Ere they could snatch a view, Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and

plain, And cot and castle flew.

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"O, rest this night within my arms,

And warm thee in their fold i Chill howls through hawthorn bush the

wind :-My love is deadly cold.”

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“ O William, why this savage haste !

And where thy bridal bed ?" 'Tis distant far, low, damp, and chill, And narrow, trustless maid.”

* Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines

clear, And well the dead can ride; Dost, faithful Helen, fear for them ?"

“O leave in peace the dead !”

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Tramp! tramp! along the land they

rode, Splash! splash! along the sea ; The scourge is wight, the spur is bright,

The flashing pebbles flee.
Fled past on right and left how fast

Each forest, grore, and bower!
On right and left fled past how fast

Each city, town, and tower! “Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines

clear, Dost fear to ride with me?Hurrah! hurrah ! the dead can ride!"

“O William, let them be !

* Barb! Barb! methinks I hear the cock,

The sand will soon be run : Barb! Barb! I smell the morning air ;

The race is well-nigh done." Tramp! tramp! along the land they

rode, Splash ! 'splash! along the sea ; The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,

The flashing pebbles flee. ** Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead ;

The bride, the bride is come; And soon we reach the bridal bed,

For, Helen, here's my home.”
Reluctant on its rusty hinge

Revolved an iron door,
And by the pale moon's setting beam

Were seen a church and tower.
With many a shriek and cry whiz round

The birds of inidnight scared ; And rustling like autumnal leaves

Unhallowed ghosts were heard. O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale

He spurred the fiery horse, Till suddenly at an open grave

He checked the wondrous course,

“See there, see there! What yonder

swings And creaks, mid whistling rain ?". “Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel ;

A murderer in his chain.

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