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rative and descriptive poet, garrulous of the old time;" nor so far as Leigh Hunt, himself a poet, who says of his verse, that it is "a little thinking, conveyed in a great many words." That there is much in his poetry to please with its beautiful and graphic description, much to animate by its lively measure, and here and there a passage to instruct and elevate by its fine sentiment, none can deny; but as a whole it is destitute of tenderness, of passion, and of philosophic truth; it goes not down into the depths of the soul, to call forth its deepest feelings, or awaken its strongest sympathies. Of its "moral tone," a very partial biographer1 remarks, "if it is not high, it must be at least admitted that it is uniformly inoffensive." In this we cannot fully concur. Much of it is to us "offensive," because it seems to delight in scenes of carnage and blood; for, as the same biographer again remarks, "very few in any age or country have portrayed with such admirable force and fire the soldier's thirst for battle, and the headlong fury of the field of slaughter." Now the question is, will posterity more and more value such poetry, or will they more willingly let it die? As the world advances in true humanity, as war is more and more looked upon as legalized murder, as the military man in his harlequin dress becomes, from age to age, the object of greater laughter and scorn with all sensible minds, will not such poetry as tends to inflame the military spirit and to excite all the most hateful passions of the human breast be less and less esteemed? We think it will. Even the genius of a Scott cannot interest the world in the border wars of rival nations, nor in the fierce encounters of hostile clans, nor make the "spirit of chivalry" respectable in the minds of the world generally, nor otherwise than hateful to the Christian; a "spirit" which, as the excellent and learned Dr. Arnold justly remarks, "predominantly deserves the name of Antichrist, and is the more detestable for the very guise of archangel ruined."

The prose works of Sir Walter Scott have given him a higher rank, and in the character of a novelist his name will go down to posterity as the inventor of a new class of fictitious writings. When "Waverley" made its appearance anonymously, the world immediately felt that a new order of things in the domain of romance was at hand; that a fascinating master-spirit had entered the wide field to glean its wealth; and as novel after novel succeeded in rapid succession, admiration was followed by astonishment at the fertility of a genius as rich as it seemed to be exhaustless. The beauty and richness of conception, the vigor of execution, the nice discrimination of character, the bold coloring of historic scenes, and the boundless acquired knowledge exhibited in his novels,-all these placed Scott, at once, at the head of fictitious writers, and the reading world devoured with avidity whatever came from his pen.

But great as are the literary merits of Scott's novels, there is a question to ask concerning them of far transcending importance :-What is their influence upon the reader? As our limits prevent us from going fully into this subject,-the influence of fictitious writings in general,-we may best answer the question started in relation to our author, by a few suggestions. Must not such works as consist partly of historic truths and partly of the creations of the imagination, necessarily give a very distorted view of facts? and, is it not better to be in entire

Encyclopædia Britannica, xix. 777.

ignorance than to have a partial and erroneous view of men and things? Is a man of high Tory principles likely to give correct views of the House of Stuart and its adherents, or of their enemies, the Puritans? Could we reasonably expect any correct appreciation of the character of a class of men as devotedly religious as any that ever lived, the Scotch Covenanters,-from one who evidently had no deep religious experience himself? Can such novels exert a good influence upon the mind as are interspersed with profane expressions, or which paint an unprincipled hero in pleasing colors? Can we expect a man of high aristocratic feeling to sympathize with his brother man in humble life, to understand his character, to feel for his position, or to appreciate his homely trials and his homely joys? It is doubtless from reflections which a question like the last would suggest, that the same partial, though discriminating biographer before quoted, remarks, “In his views of human society, the only thing, perhaps, which can at all jar on the feelings of any, is that tendency to aristocratic hauteur, which, not indeed shrinking from contact with the lower orders, and willingly recognizing and esteeming many of their virtues, yet considers them strictly as the dependants of higher men, and is silent on every other relation they can be supposed to hold. This feeling is palpable both in his poetry and his romances."

Our readers will therefore see that, however high Scott's writings rank in our estimation as works of genius, we cannot think that they leave upon either the mind or the heart altogether such impressions as we could wish. Still there may be culled from them much, very much that is beautiful, truthful, and eloquent,— much that deserves and will command the admiration of all-coming ages.

THE LAST MINSTREL.1

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek and tresses gray
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled;
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd where Newark's' stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:

The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" consists of a tale in verse, supposed to be recited by a wandering minstrel who took refuge in the castle of Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685.

This is a massive square tower, now unroofed and ruinous, surrounded by an outward wall, defended by round flanking turrets. It is most beautifully situated, about three miles from Selkirk, upon the banks of the Yarrow, a fierce and precipitous stream which unites with the Ettrick about a mile beneath the castle. It was built by James II.

The minstrel gazed with wishful eye-
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step at last

The embattled portal arch he pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,

Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!

And would the noble duchess deigu
To listen to an old man's strain?

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain'd;
The aged minstrel audience gain'd.
But, when he reach'd the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain-
He tried to tune his harp in vain!
The pitying duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.
Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,

And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head:

But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighten'd up his faded eye

With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his heart responsive rung,
'Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL Sung.

DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE ABBEY.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,

Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

The same.

LOVE OF COUNTRY-SCOTLAND.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Still as I view each well-known scene,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

Seems as to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

The same.

TIME.

The window of a turret, which projected at an angle with the wall, and thus came to be very near Lovel's apartment, was half open, and from that quarter he heard again the same music which had probably broken short his dream. With its visionary character it had lost much of its charms-it was now nothing more than an air on the harpsichord, tolerably well performed-such is the caprice of imagination as affecting the fine arts. A female voice sung, with some taste and great simplicity, something between a song and a hymn, in words to the following effect :

"Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle, so stern and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away?"-

"Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried;

"So long enjoy'd, so oft misused-
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!
"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away:
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem mine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,

When TIME and thou shalt part for ever."

REBECCA'S HYMN.

Antiquary.

It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn, which we have ventured thus to translate into English :

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out of the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands

Return'd the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between.

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