Now, by St. George,' the archer cries,
Edward, methinks we have a prize!
This boy's fair face, and courage free,
Shews he is come of high degree.'

"Yes! I am come of high degree,
For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch ;

And if thou dost not set me free,
False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue!

For Walter of Harden shall come with speed,
And William of Deloraine, good at need,
And every Scott from Esk.to Tweed;
And if thou dost not let me go,

Despite thine arrows and thy bow,

I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow!'

Gramercy for thy good will, fair boy!

My mind was never set so high;

But if thou art chief of such a clan,

And art the son of such a man,

And ever comest to thy command,

Our wardens had need to keep good order :

My bow of yew to a hazel wand,

Thou 'lt make them work upon the border.
Meantime, be pleased to come with me,
For good Lord Dacre thou shalt see;

I think our work is well begun,

When we have taken thy father's son.'

Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto III. St. 18, &c.

The scene I have quoted has perhaps reminded you of that in which old Stawarth Bolton places his red cross in the bonnet of little Halbert Glendinning, and the boy indignantly ́ ́skims it into the brook.' 'I will not go with 'you,' said Halbert boldly, 'for you are a false-hearted 'southern; and the southerns killed my father; and I will

war on you to the death, when I can draw my father's 'sword *'

'God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,' said Stawarth, 'the ' goodly custom of deadly feud will never go down in thy day, I presume.'-Monastery, vol. i. ch. 2.

To infuse into conversation a spirit truly and unaffectedly eminine appears to me one of the most difficult tasks that can be undertaken by a writer of our sex: yet this is in many instances happily achieved by the author of Marmion, although the somewhat antiquated turn of his style is unfavourable to such an attempt.. I think his greatest felicity in this respect lies in occasional snatches of speech interwoven with animated description; as when, in Holy-rood palace, Lady Heron

"rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play."

"And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,

And then around the silent ring;

And laugh'd and blush'd, and oft did say

Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,

She could not, would not, durst not play!"

Marmion, Canto V. St. 11.

Or where the young chief of Duncraggan is summoned from his father's funeral to the gathering of Clan-Alpine :

"But when he saw his mother's eye

Watch him in speechless agony,

* " And if I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be."

Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto I. St. 9.

Back to her open'd arms he flew,
Press'd on her lips a fond adieu-
"Alas!' she sobbed,- and yet be gone,
And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son!'

Suspended was the widow's tear,

While yet his footsteps she could hear;
And when she mark'd the henchman's eye
Wet with unwonted sympathy,

'Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run
That should have sped thine errand on;
The oak has fallen,-the sapling bough
Is all Duncraggan's shelter now:

Yet trust I well, his duty done,

The orphan's God will guard my son.”—&c.

Lady of the Lake, Canto III. St. 18.

Nor must I omit that beautiful burst of wounded maternal pride, when the elvish counterfeit of young Buccleuch refuses to mix with the defenders of Branksome:

"Then wrathful was the noble dame

She blushed blood-red for very shame-
'Hence! ere the clan his faintness view;
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch ;

Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto IV. St. 11.

But there are many colloquial passages of greater length in these poems, highly distinguished by feminine grace and tenderness: as, for instance, the conversations of Matilda

L

with her two lovers, in Rokeby*: that scene in the Lady of the Lake, where Fitz-James, impelled by his passion for Ellen, revisits the Lonely Isle on the eve of a Highland insurrection; and the opening conversation in the Lord of the Isles, when Edith of Lorn, attended by her nurse, is watching for her tardy bridegroom:

"Think'st thou

...

to cheat the heart,

That, bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return, and looks in vain ?
No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot
In these brief words-He loves her not!
Debate it not too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn-while yet a child,
She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side-
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.

He came and all that had been told
Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,

Unjust to Ronald and to me!

Since then, what thought had Edith's heart
And gave not plighted love its part!-

And what requital? cold delay-
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day.-

It dawns, and Ronald is not here!-
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,

Or loiters he in secret dell

To bid some lighter love farewell,

* Cantos IV. and V.

+ Canto IV. St. 16 to 18.

And swear, that though he may not scorn
A daughter of the House of Lorn,

Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,

Again they meet, to part no more?'

Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove,

More nobly think of Ronald's love.

Look, where beneath the castle gray
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay!

Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!' Fair Edith sigh'd,
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied:-
"Sweet thought, but vain!"-&c.

Lord of the Isles, Canto I. St. 9, &c.

In furnishing parallel instances from the novels, my only difficulty would be to choose among the multitude. One short passage, however, I am induced to extract, as harmonizing well with the strain of poetry just now selected :

'In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe, 'Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure 'which she experienced, even in a moment when all around 'them both was danger, if not despair. As she felt his pulse and inquired after his health, there was a softness in 'her touch and in her accents, implying a kinder interest 'than she would herself have been pleased to have vo'luntarily expressed. Her voice faultered and her hand

trembled, and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe, "Is it you, gentle maiden ?" which recalled her to herself, 6 and reminded her the sensations which she felt were not ' and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was 'scarce audible, and the questions which she put to the