Socrates resumes his discourse-you may read it, James, in that divine dialogue of Plato1

Shepherd. But I'm no great haun at the Greek.

North. Use Floyer Sydenham's translation, or let me see —has he done that dialogue? Take then that noble old man's, Taylor of Norwich. Socrates resumes his discourse, and declares his satisfaction in death, and his trust in immortality. A moment, indeed, for the sublime in art, but affording to the painter opportunity for a different purpose from that which was mine in my great picture. For in this sketch, instead of intending, as my principal and paramount object, the representation of individual historical character-I have designed to express-rather-the Power among men of the sublime Spirit of their being-exemplified among a people dark with idolatry—using the historical subject as subservient to this my purpose-inasmuch as it shows a single mind raised up by the force of this feeling above nature-yea, shows the power of that feeling within that one mind, resting in awe upon a great multitude of men. For, surely, my dear James, it is not to be believed that at that moment, one countenance would preserve unchanged its bitter hostility, when revenge was in part defeated by seeing triumph arise out of doomwhen malignant hate had got its victim-and when murder, that had struck its blow, might begin to feel its heart open to the terror of remorse.

Shepherd. My dear Mr North, gie me baith your twa hauns. That's richt. Noo that I hae shucken, and noo that I hae squozen them in my ain twa nieves no unlike a vice, though you're no the king upon the throne, wi' a golden croon on his head, and a sceptre in his haun- that's King William the Fourth, God bless him-yet you are a king; and, as a loyal subject, loyal but no servile, for never was a slave born i' the Forest, here do I, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, kneel doun on ae knee-thus-and kiss the richt haun o' King Kit.

[The SHEPHERD drops on his knee-does as he says, in spite of NORTH'S struggles to hinder him-rises-wipes the dust from his pans—and resumes his seat.

North. "How many of my poorest subjects," James, "are now asleep!" Look at Tickler.

Tickler. Asleep! Broad-awake as the Baltic in a blast.

1 The Phaedon.

VOL. III.

L

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TICKLER FIDDLES AND SINGS.

But when under the power of Eloquence, I always sit with my eyes shut.

Shepherd. But what for snore? Hae ye nae mercy on the sick man through the partition ?

North. After Painting, let us have some Politics.

Shepherd. Na-na-na-na-na! Come, Mr Tickler, gie's a sang to the fiddle. See hoo your Cremona is smilin on you to haunle her frae her peg.

[The SHEPHERD takes down the celebrated Cremona from the wall, and, after tuning it, gives it to TICKLER. Tickler (attempting a prelude). Shade of Stabilini! heard'st thou ever grated such harsh discord as this? 'Tis like a litter of pigs. [TICKLER tunes his instrument. Shepherd. Oh, for Geordie Cruckshanks! "TICKLER AT THE TUNING!" What for, Mr North, dinna ye get Geordie to invent a Series o' Illustrations o' the Noctes, and publish a Selection in four volumms octawvo?

North. Wait, James, till " one with moderate haste might count a HUNDRED."

Shepherd. What if we're a' dead?

North. The world will go on without us.

Shepherd. Ay-but never sae weel again. The verra earth will feel a dirl at her heart, and pause for a moment pensively on her ain axis.

(Tickler sings to an accompaniment of his own composition for the Cremona.)

DEMOS.

My song is of Demos,1 our well-meaning friend,
Who lately was leading a peaceable life,
But now is so changed, that there's really no end
To his love of commotion, disturbance, and strife:
He's got such strange fancies and whims in his head,
And shows them so strangely wherever he goes,
That I fear he requires to be physic'd and bled,

For the more he is humour'd, the wilder he grows.

Thus abroad, he again has insanely begun

The career that once led him to sorrow and shame:

And madly exulting in what he has done,

He thinks his own echo the trumpet of Fame:

1 Demos-the people.

DEMOS.

He blusters, and bullies, and brags of it so,
Yet mimics so strangely the land of the free,
That you'd almost suppose he intended to show
How truly absurd even Freedom can be!

There in heavy Holland, where a sceptre of lead,
By nature should hold its Bootian reign,
He vows he must have the French bayonet instead,
Just to keep his own pond'rous posteriors in pain!
He sets fire to his house-he abandons his trade-
He perplexes his person with warlike array,
And fearlessly tells us he is not afraid,

And will never submit to legitimate sway !

Then at home he despises the old-fashion'd air

Of the vessel that's weather'd so many a storm,
And tells all the crew that they now must prepare
For a work of destruction, which he calls Reform:
And much do I fear that the crew must submit,
And yield to a blast that so fiercely prevails,
For the Devil himself at the helm seems to sit,
While Beelzebub's busy in filling the sails!

Oh, Demos! thy madness is madness indeed,
As all will admit, in that ill-omen'd hour,
When, from Princes, from Priests, and from Principles freed,
You become the first victim of this your own power!
For, trust me, my friend, you have merely to taste
The sweets of your own Il-legitimate sway,

To mourn o'er the path that can ne'er be retraced,

And curse the false friends that have led you astray !

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Shepherd. Soun' doctrine weel sung. Mr North, when ma lug's in for music, I aye like to hear't flowin, if no in a continuous strain, yet just, as a body micht say, wi' nae langer interruption than ane micht toddle ower a bit green knowe, and come down on anither murmur in the hollow, as sweet and clear as that he has left!

North. After such an image, James, how can I refuse?
Shepherd. Here's your herp, sir.

[NORTH receives from the hand of the SHEPHERD perhaps the
finest-toned Welsh harp in the world-the gift of Owen
Evans of Penmanmawr.

North. The air, you know, is my own, James. I shall sing it to-night to some beautiful words by my friend Robert Folke

164

stone Williams1. Noctes.

NORTH SINGS

written, he tells me, expressly for the

Oh! fill the wine-cup high,

The sparkling liquor pour;
For we will care and grief defy,
They ne'er shall plague us more.
And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a home,
A dwelling in our hearts.

Though bright may be the beams
That woman's eyes display;
They are not like the ruby gleams
That in our goblets play.
For though surpassing bright
Their brilliancy may be,

Age dims the lustre of their light,
But adds more worth to thee."

1 "Robert Folkestone Williams, author of the Youth of Shakespec Shakespeare and his Friends, and other works of romantic fiction."—Am can Editor.

“FILL THE WINE-CUP HIGH.”

Each song the bard has given,

Its beauty and its worth,

Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven

Was echoed upon earth.

How mighty-how divine,
Thy spirit seemeth when

The rich draught of the purple vine
Dwelt in these godlike men.
It made each glowing page,
Its eloquence, and truth,
In the glory of their golden age,
Outshine the fire of youth.

Joy to the lone heart-joy
To the desolate oppress'd,
For wine can every grief destroy,
That gathers in the breast.
The sorrows, and the care,

That in our hearts abide,

"Twill chase them from their dwellings there, To drown them in its tide.

And now the heart grows warm,
With feelings undefined,
Throwing their deep diffusive charm
O'er all the realms of mind.

The loveliness of truth

Flings out its brightest rays, Clothed in the songs of early youth, Or joys of other days.

We think of her, the young,

The beautiful, the bright;
We hear the music of her tongue,
Breathing its deep delight.

We see again each glance,

Each bright and dazzling beam,
We feel our throbbing hearts still dance-
We live but in a dream.

From darkness, and from woe,
A power like lightning darts;
A glory cometh down to throw
Its shadow o'er our hearts.

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