And such a yell was there, Long looked the anxious squires; their cye Could in the darkness nought descry. As in the storm the white sca-mew. But nought distinct they see: Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Evening fell on the deadly struggle, and the spectators were forced from the agitating scene. But as they left the darkening heath, To break the Scottish circle deep. That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go. Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, The stubborn spearmen still made good No thought was there of dastard flight; As fearlessly and well; Tili utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin ost and wounded king, Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field of snow When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, The hero receives his death-wound, and is borne off the field. The description, detached from the context, loses much of its interest; but the mingled effects of mental agony and physical suffering, of remorse and death, on a bad but brave spirit trained to war, is described with true sublimity : Death of When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare: Where's Harry Blount? Fitz- Eustace, where ? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! Marmion. Tell him his squadrons up to bring. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire- Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone-to dic. Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring O woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain side, Where raged the war, a dark red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark A little fountain-cell, Where water. clear as diamond spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink .and. pray. For.the.kind. soul. of. Sybil Grey. Who. built. this. cross, and .well. She filled the helm, and back she hied, A monk supporting Marmion's head; To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said. 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?' Then as remembrance rose'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!' 'Alas!' she said, the while-- Lord Marmion started from the ground, For wasting fire, and dying groan, It may not be !-this dizzy trance- And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then fainting down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labour Clara bound, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle borne down by the flying Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!' So the notes rung; 'Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand, O think on faith and bliss! But never aught like this." With dying hand, above his head Charge, Chester, charge: On, Stanley on ! We may contrast with this the silent and appalling death-scene of Roderick Dhu, in the Lady of the Lake.' The savage chief expires while listening to a tale chanted by the bard or minstrel of his clan: At first, the chieftain to his chime, His face grows sharp; his hands are As if some pang his heart-strings wrench Set are his teeth, his fading eye Thus, motionless and moanless, drew The Lady of the Lake' is more richly picturesque than either of the former poems, and the plot is more regular and interesting. The subject,' says Sir John Mackintosh, is a common Highland irruption; but at a point where the neighbourhood of the Lowlands affords the best contrast of manners-where the scenery affords the noblest subject of description-and where the wild clan is so near to the court that their robberies can be connected with the romantic adventures of a disguised king, an exiled lord, and a high-born beauty. The whole narrative is very fine.' It was the most popular of the author's poems: in a few months twenty thousand copies were sold, and the district where the action of the poem lay was visited by countless thousands of tourists. With this work closed the great popularity of Scott as a poet. 'Rokeby,' a tale of the English Cavaliers and Roundheads, was considered a failure, though displaying the utmost art and talent in the delineation of character and passion. 'Don Roderick' is vastly inferior to 'Rokeby;' and 'Harold' and 'Triermain' are but faint copies of the Gothic epics, however finely finished in some of the tender passages. The Lord of the Isles' is of a higher mood. It is a Scottish story of the days of Bruce, and has the characteristic fire and animation of the minstrel, when, like Rob Roy, he has his foot on his native heath. Bannockburn may be compared with Flodden Field in energy of description, though the poet is sometimes lost in the chronicler and antiquary. The interest of the tale is not well sustained throughout, and its chief attraction consists in the descriptive powers of the author, who, besides his feudal halls and battles, has drawn the magnificent scenery of the West Highlands-the cave of Staffa, and the dark desolate grandeur of the Coriusk lakes and mountains-with equal truth and sublimity. The lyrical pieces of Scott are often very happy. The old ballad strains may be said to have been his original nutriment as a poet, and he is consequently often warlike and romantic in his songs. But he has also gaiety, archness, and tenderness, and if he does not touch deeply the heart, he never fails to paint to the eye and imagination. The Sun upon the Weirdlaw IIill. The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, Bears those bright hues that once it Though evening, with her richest dye, Hymn of the Hebrew Maid.-From Ivanhoe.' When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 1 Or coi, the hollow side of the hill where game usually lias, E. L. vol. v.-0 There rose the choral hymn of praise. Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, But, present still, though now unseen! And oh, when stoops on Judah's path And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. Scott retreated from poetry into the wide and open field of prose fiction as the genius of Byron began to display its strength and fertility. A new, or at least a more finished, nervous, and lofty style of poetry was introduced by the noble author, who was as much a mannerist as Scott, but of a different school. He excelled in painting the strong and gloomy passions of our nature, contrasted with feminine softness and delicacy. Scott, intent upon the development of his plot, and the chivalrous machinery of his Gothic tales, is seldom personally present to the reader. Byron delighted in self-portraiture. His philosophy of life was false and pernicious; but the splendour of the artist concealed the deformity of his design. Parts were so nobly finished, that there was enough for admiration to rest upon, without analysing the whole. He conducted his readers through scenes of surpassing beauty and splendour-by haunted streams and mountains, enriched with the glories of ancient poetry and valour: but the same dark shadow was ever by his side-the same scorn and mockery of human hope and ambition. The sententious force and elevation of his thoughts and language, his eloquent expression of sentiment, and the mournful and solemn melody of his tender and pathetic passages, seemed, however, to do more than atone for his want of moral truth and reality. The man and the poet were so intimately blended, and the spectacle presented by both was so touching, mysterious, and lofty, that Byron concentrated a degree of interest and anxiety on his successive public appearances, which no author ever before was able to boast. Scott had created the public taste for animated poetry, and |