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beth of Kenilworth, but the dust and that that was impossible, for in truth ashes of what she once was, and we could make nothing of it. We dying, as was thought, of a broken then thought that we might at least heart; and that, with regard to sa- have been able to say why it was tire, I will be quiet, if they'll let me called the Croisade ; but here, too, alone; if not, when a little older, we found ourselves at a loss, and and more ill-natured, they who mís- could not well say whether it is a behave may have cause to wish me poem about Palestine or Scotlandin heaven!"

about the battles in which Godfrey By this time, many of our readers and Roland fought, or those which will readily adopt our conclusion, not, have immortalized the names of that Mr Gower is a wag, but that he Wallace and of Græme. ought to have instant recourse to an We next imagined, that however antiphlogistic regimen. His lucu- unable we might be to follow the brations in prose and verse bavour thread of the story, we should at strongly of the delirious reveries of an least be able to find some stanzas, English opium-eater. If Mr Gower which we might point out as either is not one of the English masticators happy or wretched in their execuof that pernicious drug, it follows, tion. But here again we were at a we think, to demonstration, that the stand ; for the whole seemed to our stupifying effects of intoxication are eyes

like Chaos or Erebus. At last not at all requisite to set him into we discovered, that, in imitation of fits of raving. Persons affected like our great minstrel, the poem has S. Gower, Esq., are in this country a body of irregular and lyric-lookgenerally known by the appellation ing verse, each member of which is of-Daft Poets.

prefaced by something relating to We have still in our lumber-room Scottish or West Indian scenery, many printed reams of poetry, of some or some other subject on which we what queerish appearance, though thought we could repose with some still uncut, unread, and unthumbed. prospect of delight, and we also We shall devote an oocasional hour, found out, that one of those producsnatched from more important la- tions is descriptive of the scenery bours, to examine these ; and we will, betwixt Soultra and Edinburgh. in all probability, soon find an op- This we thought would do; but portunity of presenting the world when we attempted to fix in our with a few more choice samples of minds how we should characterize POETRY DEVOTED TO POSTERITY." this description, we were as much

puzzled as by any of the preceding

matter; so we determined to trust THE CROISADE ; OR, THE PALMER's to the judgment of our readers them.

selves; and as this is an age in BY CHARLES KERR, ESQ.

which the public taste is exercised

by all kinds and qualities of verse, Our first thought, on entering up we had no doubt but we might just on the perusal of this poem, was to quote the greater part of this descriphave given some account of the wan tion, and leave it to our readers to derings or exploits of the pilgrim; say, whether the author ought any and in this way, if we could do no longer to pay his devotion to the more, we at least expected to have Muse, or to confine himself to that imitated some critics of greater name, love of nature, or to that admiration of by producing a dry detail of the the genius of other poets, with which story. We soon found, however, we have no doubt that he is gifted.

Northward from Soultra's summit pass thine eye,
See what an Eden starts upon the sight!
Wood, mountain, ocean, stream, all blended lie
In sweet confusion, mingling in their light,
Whate'er the soul can wish, or sense invite ;
All, that creation, warm from nature's hand,
Breath'd on its pallet, when from shades of night

Rose this round globe at the divine command,
And the first airs of spring spread life around the land,

A METRICAL RO

PILGRIMAGE.
MANCE.

From east to west, th' indented shores survey ;
The eye with rapture trembles ; and the soul,
Bent upon contemplation, wings its way,
And times long past within its orbit roll :
When, on this goodly prospect rapine stole,
And death, not manna, on the morning beam
Repos'd ; and with it pour'd a hideous shoal

Of traitors, who, like thieves at midnight, came;
Spilld the life-blood, and drench'd the soil with the pure stream.

Starts Borthwick's pile upon me, whose rude tower
Seems like the mast of some wreck'd argosy,
And there Craigmillar's humbler shadows shower
Their ghastly forms o'er Mary's memory:
And Roslin's castle, meeting still the eye
Of contemplation ; and those bowers that lean
On the white foam, whose sparkles playful fly

Up the proud steep of castled Hawthornden;
And mass more dungeon'd deep-its Crichton's bloody den.

Umbrag'd by bowers, where shade on shade reposing,
Yield twilight's livery grey 'midst dazzling noon;
Freshness amidst o'erpowering suns disclosing,
And summer's fruits caress'd by vernal bloom,
Thy groves, Dalkeith, I thread and court the gloom
Of many a sweet recess ;-before me stand
Thy Græme, thy Douglas !_names, that yet assume

Power to command, as then, when o'er the land
Rush'd Edward's fearful breath, and England's iron hand

And lo! Edina's terrac'd heights appear,
Sparkle her gray cliffs in meridian light;
Smiles her blue ocean, rock and mountain wear
Banners of triumph, waving with delight !
For Nelson's bold heart at Trafalgar's fight
Rush'd o'er his world of waters, and his eye,
Like the plum'd eagle's from his aerie's height,

Flam'd its swift track ; commanding Victory
To fix his deathless fame a planet in the sky.

Now down the lovely Forth the breeze is curling,
And gently heaves the billow's rising swell.
Hark the hurra! the sails are now unfurling,
Quick spreads the canvass with a wizard's spell!
Feels not thy heart the seaman's bold farewell ?
Aloft-from shore to shore, the signal's pouring !
Shall not-Hereafter of their daring tell ?

Look how Britannia's o'er the billows towering,
While purple clouds of eve are on the white wave showering!

How stately steps she on her glassy ocean !
Like a proud sea-god bursting from the deep;
Streamers that kiss the heavens-wind-Wave in motion,
Worlds at her beck, and fame upon her sweep.
Shuddering her red Trafalgar's billows steep
Her prow in blood ;-her Nelson's signal few;
Britannia's thunders on the wild floods leap,

Death in her touch ;-swift lightnings round her drew;
And glory's dreadful echoes from her deck she threw.

Say, didst thou e'er, at the soft hour when leans
The calm of evening o'er that roek of grey,
And the mind's eye a mystic image weens
In the chang'd forms, that fit on parting day,

Call forth those phantoins, by some magic lay,
Whose genius yet entwin'd about this spot,
Wreaths round and round their bloody tragedy,

Feelings, which ages have not yet forgot,
Which ages yet to come shall mark as Nature's blot ?

In that calm hour I've set me, when the gleam
Of sun-set strikes upon the hermit's cell ;
And visions pass'd me like a midnight dream;
Thoughts of the days of old upon me fell.
I've set me ;-round me rung day's parting knell;
The stars rose one by one, yon Gothic skreen,
(Beneath whose broken crumbling arcades, dwell

Relics--whose bleeding shades yet here convene ;)
Was in the moon-light swath'd, and shiver'd in its sheen.

Up Rizzio rose, scarf'd in his bloody shroud;
Methought his dying screams before me grew;
With dagger dripping gore beside him stood
Henry-and Murder round that shadow drew.
Came Bothwell next ;-cadaverous his hue ;
Famish'd and shrunk, undaunted yet his air ;
And then a lovely vision rose to view,

So pale, so wan with suffering, yet so fair,
That Mercy's voice was loud-where Justice fear'd to spare.

THE HAWTHORN TREE.
I MARK'd an old hawthorn tree wither'd away,

That spread her bare branches to Heaven;
And a few lovely flow'rs that surviv'd her decay,

Still scented the breezes of even.
All cold o'er the blossoms the dew-drops were shed,

Through the rays of the slow setting sun;
And they breath'd o'er the rest of the tree that was dead,

All the fragrance of days that were gone.
A bird warbled sweet on the moss-cover'd stem

Where the flow'rets in loneliness grew;
And mourn'd all alone in her song over them,

For the verdure no time could renew.
All in silence I gaz'd on the bare blighted tree

That had felt the rude winds of the sky;
While it seem'd in its ruins an emblem of me,

The tear softly rose in my eye:
And I wept o'er the dew-cover'd blossoms, that seem’d

Like the memory of long faded years ;
That brings o'er our age the sweet visions we dream'd,

And breathes all their fragrance through tears :
And the song of the bird, that at intervals rose,

From the branches all leafless and dead;
Seem'd like mem’ry, that wakens our dreams of repose,
When the joys of repose are all fled.

L.

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STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A FEW LINES OF MOORE'S, ENTITLED

NONSENSE.
If thou hast seen the morning light,

When from the eastern skies it sallies,
Chasing away the shades of night,

That linger darkly o'er the vallies

If thou hast seen the setting sun

Roll through the skies with silent motion ;
Plunging, when all his race is run
Amid

the purpling waves of ocean-

If thou hast seen the sea-birds float,

Soft on the heaving billow bounding;
And heard at night their dreary note,

Far on the rocky island sounding-
If thou hast seen the eagle soar

High o'er the cliffs on dauntless pinion ;
Where wild rocks rise, and torrents roar,

In desolation's waste dominion
If thou hast seen the light'ning flash,

And burst the mountain rocks asunder;
And watch'd the wild waves as they dash

Along the trembling shore in thunder-
If thou hast seen the moon's pure ray,

All softly o'er the ruin beaming;
Where owlets sit and watch the day,

Close on the world, amid their screaming-
If thou hast wander'd by the shore,

And gaz'd upon the ocean green-
If thou hast view'd all this, and more
“God bless me! what a deal you've seen!"

L.

THE WANDEBER'S LAMENT O'ER THE GRAVB OF HIS LOVE.

I HAVE wander'd o'er nations, and mingled with men,

And have roam'd on the turbulent wave;
But the morn I left home is remember'd in vain,
When I weep o'er the desolate

grave!
She was dear to my soul as the light of the day

To the mariner after a storm ;
But the beauty of earth has departed away,

And I weep o'er her spiritless form !
"Tis the Wanderer's lament o'er the grave of his love,

And too cruel alas ! was her doom ;
But can sorrow this turf from her bosom remove,

And bid Lucy awake from her tomb ?
Shall not vengeance be mine? Ere I sink to repose

I shall know who has ruin'd her fame!
For her friends have abandon'd my girl to her foes,

And reproach bas made free with her name.
But one arm shall defend her fond memory yet

In the grave where she sleeps with disgrace ;
For her own was the heart that could never forget

What was due to her honour and race.
And shall kinsmen traduce her for loving so well,

And remaining so true and so dear ? -
No, my Lucy oh no!-but my bosom must swell

While I whisper thy name with a tear !

JACOBITE RELICS, NOT PUBLISHED vice. An aged man of superior manIN MR HOGG'S COLLECTION. ners, but dressed in shabby habili

ments, came in contact with me one MR EDITOR, Since the time that the Jacobite licited some eleemosynary relief. I

day, some twelve months ago, and so Relics of Scotland were published, gave him a trifle, and he took his two very extensive collections have leave. A few days after, he came to been sent to me; the one from London, me again, and offered me, for a few and the other from & gentleman in shillings, the volume which I had the North of England, (Mr Bulmer hoped would have been of some serof Adderston). Like all the huge col- vice to you. And besides, he had a lections of Jacobite songs and poems small quarto common-place book, that have fallen into my hands, there half filled with notes, of a similar are many of those in the two volumes hand-writing to that of the relics.mentioned, that are either absolute I purchased the twain, obtained the trash, or quite common-place verses. person's address, and heard no more Nevertheless, there are many of them of him. He directed me to seek him that I have never before seen or heard in Prince's-Square, Ratcliffe Highof; and as they have impressive way; but no such á one could I ever marks of originality about them, I find; and I have great reason to sup, have judged it incumbent on me to pose that he imposed a false name and preserve some of the best of them ip address on me. The common-place your Magazine, as the cnly old stand- book having on one of its fly-leaves, ard National Work, in which such “ ffra : Lynn Trin: Coll. Cantab: relics ought to be registered. Some 16916," which being in the same au, people will perhaps think it would tograph with that of the Relics, and have been as natural, and as consistent the date corresponding with theirs, I with good economy in me, to have think that must have been the writer published them in an Appendix to a of both manuscripts. The book I have new edition of my National Work : alluded to, if you think it would be but such people do not know, in the of the smallest service to you, shall be least, how the world goes. They do forwarded immediately. Here, then, not know that it is an invariable prin- my dear Sir, is the whole, but, I am ciple with my booksellers, never to

sorry to say, very imperfect history publish a second edition of any book; of what, had I had the happiness of and were I to put off till it is time to an earlier knowledge of your Jacobite publish a third edition, there is little lucubrations, should have been at doubt that those genuine relics would your service much sooner. fall out of mind, or be quit lost, in

(Signed) W. B. MARSHALL. handing froin one to another. The present moment only is ours, and an 9, Beaufort-Row, Chelsea." opportunity once lost, it may never

No one can suspect the truth of be in our power to recal,

the above plain unvarnished tale. It That there may be no suspicions of carries that species of conviction along any imposition, I subjoin the letters with it, which leaves no manner of of the two gentlemen who favoured lurking doubt. Mr Bulmer's account me with the collections. Mr W. B. of the manner in which he recovered Marshall, of Beaufort-Row, Chelsea, his, is a great deal more circumstanfirst forwarded me the one collection, tial and fanciful, but in all probathrough the hands of my booksellers.bility not the less true. It came along I wrote to him, acknowledging the with the manuscripts at first. I have receipt of the manuscripts, and re

to ask both these gentlemen's pardon questing him to give me the history for thus publishing their letters. of them as far as he knew. His an. swer was as follows:

" Adderston-House, Sept. 3d, 1821. “The history of the Jacobite

SIB, bagatelles which I had the honour of “ Along with this you will retransinitting to you, is short, and will, ceive a collection of Jacobite songs I fear, be unsatisfactory. It is, how- and poems, which you may make ever, and all things of the same na what use of you please, only taking ture that I possess, fully at your scr care to preserve the originals, and

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