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The plot is interesting, and the versification easy and musical. Mickle assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads'-in which ‘Cumhor Hall' and other pieces of his first appeared ; and thougla in this style of composition he did not copy the direct simplicity and unsophisticated ardour of the real old ballads, he had much of their tenderness and pathos. A still stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish song, “ The Mariner's Wité,' but better known as “There's nae Luck about the House,' wbich was claimed by a poor schoolmistress, named Jean Adams, who died in the Town's Hospital, Glasgow, in 1765. It is probable that Jean Adams had written some song with the same burthen (* There's nae luck about the house'), but the popular lyric referred to seems to have been the composition of Mickle. An imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among his manuscripts after his death ; and his widow bemg applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words. It is the fairest flower in his poetical chaplet. The delineation of humble matrimonial happiness and affection which the song presents, is almost unequalled. Beattie added a stanza to this song, containing a happy Epicurean fancy, elevated by the situation and the faithful love of the speaker-which Burns says is 'worthy of the first poet'

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.
Mickle would have excelled in the Scottish dialect, and in portraying
Scottish life, had he truly known his own strength, and trusted to the
impulses of his heart instead of his ambition.

Cumnor Hall.
The dews of summer night did fall, Not so the usage I received

The moon-sweet rigent of the sky, When happy in my father's hall; Silvered the walls of Cumpor Hall, No faithless husband then me grieved,

And many an oak that grew thereby. No chilling fears did me appal. Now nought was heard beneath the skies 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, The sounds of busy life were still

No lark so blithe, no flower more gay ; Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, That issued from that lonely pile.

So merrily sung the livelong day. Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love • If that my beauty is but small,

That thou ko oft has sworn to me, Among court-ladies all despised, To leave me in this lonely grove,

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Immured in shameful privity ?

Where, scornful Earl, it well was

prized ? • No more thou com’st. with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see;

And when you first to me made suit, But be she alive, or he she dead,

How fair I was, you oft would say ! I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. And,prond of cougniest, plucked the fruit,

Then left the blossom to decay.

* Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuadedwisely, we think-by Mr. Constable, his publisher, to adopt the title of Kenilworth,

E. L. v. iv.--7


Yes ! now neglected and despised, Like the poor plant, that, from its stem The rose is pale, the lily's dead ;

Divided, feels the chilling air.
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled. "Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; *For know, when sickening grief doth Your minions proud my peace destroy, prey,

By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay :

Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, What floweret can endure the storm ? The village death-bell smote my ear;

They winked aside, and seemed to say : "At court, l'ın told, is beauty's throne, “Countess, prepare—thy end is near."

Where every lady's passing rare, That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, And now, while happy peasants sleep, Are not so glowiug, not so fair.

Here I sit lonely and forlorn;

No one to soothe me as I weep, *Then, Fairl, why didst thou leave the Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

beds Where roses and where lilies vie, My spirits flag, my hopes decay; To seek a primrose, whose pale shades still that dread death-bell sinites my Must sicken whcu those gauds are by ?


And many a body seems to say: Mong rurai heauties I was one;

“ Countess, prepare-thy end is near," } Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, Thus sore and sad that lady grieved And thought my passing beauty rare. In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;

Aud many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, • But, Leicester--or 1 much am wrong- And let fall many a bitter tear.

It is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

And ere the dawn of day appeared, Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. In Cumuor Hall, so lone and drear,

Full many a piercing scream was heard, •Then, Leicester, why, again I plead- And many a cry of mortal fear.

The injured surely inay repine--. Why didst thou wed a country maid, The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, When some fair princess might be An aerial voice was heard to call, thine ?

And thrice the raven flapped his wing

Around the towers of Camnor Hall. • Why didst tholl praise my humble charms

The mastiff howled at village door, And, oh! then leave them to decay? The oaks were shattered on the green; Why didst thou wiu me to thy arms, Woe was the hour, for never more Then leave me to mourn the livelong That hapless Countess e'er was seen. day?

And in that manor, now no more "The viliage maidens of the plain

Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball ; Salute me lowly as they go :

For ever since that dreary hour Envious they mark my silken train,

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. Nor think a countess can have woe.

The village maids, with fearful glance,' • The simple nymphs ! they little know Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;

How far inore happy 's their estate ; Nor ever lead the merry dance To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; Among the groves of Cumnor Hall, To be conteut, than to be great.

Full many a traveller has sighed, • How far lces best am I than them, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, Daily to pne nu'd waste with care As wandering onwards they've espied

The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

The Mariner's Wife, or There's nae Luck about the House.' But are ye sure the news is true ?

There are twa hens into the crib, And are ye sure he's weel ?

Hae fed this month and mair, Is this a time to think o wark ?

Mak haste and thraw their necks about, Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.

That Colin weel may fare.
There's pae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',

Bring down to me my bigonet,
There's nae luck about the house, My bishop's satin gown,
When our gudeman's awa'.

For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin 's at the door ?

My Turkey slippers I 'll put on,
Rax down iny cloak-I'll to the quay, My stockins pearl blue
And see him come ashore.

It's a' to pleasare our gudeman,

For he's baith leal aud true.
Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the nickle pot ;

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

His breath 's like caller air; And Jock his Sunday's coat.

His very fit has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;

And will I see his face again ?
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-

Aud will I hear him speak ? He likes to see them braw.

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:

In troth I'm like to greet. In the author's manuscript, another verse is added :

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae pae mair to crave,
And gin I live to mak him say,

I'm blest aboon the lave.
The following is the addition made by Dr. Beattie:
The cauld blasts of the winter wind But what put parting in my head ?
That thrilled through my heart,

It may be far awa;
They're a' blawn by; I hae him safe, The present moment is our ain,
Till death we'll never part.

The neist we never saw.
The Spirit of the Cape.- From the 'Lusiad.'

Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled ;
From these rude shores our fearless course we held :
Beneath the glisteving wave the god of day
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray,
When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread,
And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head
A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far
The moon's paleg impse, nor faintly tw nkling star;
So deep a gloom the lowering vapour cast,
Transfixed with awe the bravest stood aghast.
Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds,
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds,
Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowuing heaven,
The wonted signs of gathering tempest given,
Amazed we stood-0 thou, our fortune's guide,
Avert this omen, mighty God, I cried ;
Or through forbidden climes adventurous strayed,
Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed,

* In the author's manuscript'button gown.'

Which these wide solitndes of seas and sky
Were doomed to hide from man's uuhallowed eye ?
Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more
Than midnight tempest and the iningled roar,
When sa aud sky combine to rock the marble shore.

I spoke, when rising throngh the darkened air,
Appalled, we saw a hideous phantom glare;
High and enormous o'er the flood he towered,
And thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered.
Uncarthly paleness o'er his checks were spread,
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red;
Writhing to speak, bis sable lips disclose,
Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows;
His hagyard beard flowed quivering on the wind,
Revenge and horror in his inien combined ;
His clouded front, by withering lightning scared,
The inward anguish of his sont declared.
His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves
Shot livid fires : far echoing o'er the waves
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore
With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar.
Cold gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast;
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed
Wild dread; the while with visage ghastly wan,
His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began :

O you, the boldest of the nations, fired
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired,
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose,
Through these my waves advance yonr fearless prows,
Regardless of the lengthening watery way,
And all the storms that own my sovereign sway,
Who 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore.
Where never hero braved my rage before ;
Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane,
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign,
Have passed the bounds which jealons Nature drew,
To veil her secret shrine from mortal view.
Hear from my lips what direful woes attend,
Aud bursting soon shall o'er your race descend.

With every bounding keel that dares my rage,
Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage;
The next prou feet that throngh my dear dontain,
With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane,
That gallant navy by my whirlwiuds tossed,
And raging sens, shall perish on my coast.
Then he who first my secret, reign descried,
A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide
Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail,
O Lusus ! oft shalt thou thy children wail;
Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore,
Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore.'

Ile spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew,
A doleful sound, and vanished from the view;
The frightened billows gave a rolling swell,
And distant far prolonged the dismal yell;
Faint and more faint the howling echoes die,
And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky.

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY (1724–1805) was author of the New Bath
Guide,' a light satirical and humorous poem, original in design, and

which set an example in this description of composition, that has since been followed in numerous instances, and with great success. Smollett, in his . Humphry Clinker,' published five years later, may be almost said to have reduced the “New Bath Guide to prosc. Many of the characters and situations are exactly the same as those of Anstey. The poem seldom rises above the tone of conversation, but is easy, sportive, and entertaining. The fashionable Fribbles of the day, the chat, scandal, and amusements of those attending the wells, and the canting hypocrisy of some sectarians, are depicted, sometimes with indelicacy, but always with force and liveliness. Mr. Anstey was son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, a gentleman who possessed a considerable landed property, which the poet afterwards inherited. He was educated at Eton School, and elected to King's College, Cambridge, and in both places he distinguished himself as a classical scholar. In consequence of his refusal to deliver certain declamations, Anstey quarreled with the heads of the university, and was denied the usual degree. In the epilogue to the 'New Bath Guide,' he alludes to this circumstance:

Granta, sweet Granta, where studious of ease,

Seven years did I sleep, and then lost my degrees. He then went into the army, and married Miss Calvert, sister to his friend John Calvert, Esq. of Allbury Hall, in Hertfordshire, through whose influence he was returned to parliament for the borough of Hertford. He was a frequent resident in the city of Bath, and a favourite in the fashionable and literary coteries of the place. In 1766 was published his celebrated poem, which instantly became popular. He wrote various other pieces—but while the 'New Bath Guide' was the only thing in fashion,' and relished for its novel and original kind of humour, the other productions of Anstey were neglected by the public, and have never been revived. In the erjoy. ment of his paternal estate, the poet, however, was independent of the public support, and he took part in the sports of the field up to bis eightieth year. While on a visit to his son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, at Harnage, Wiltshire, he was taken ill, and died on the 80 of August 1805.

The Public Breakfast.
Now my lord had the honour of coming down post,
To pay his respects to so famous a toast;
In hopes he her ladyship's favour might win,
By playing the part of a host at an inn.
I'm sure he's a person of great resolution,
Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution ;
For he carried us all to a place 'cross the river,
And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver:
He said it would greatly our pleasure promote,
If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat:
I never as yet could his reason explain,
Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain ;

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