"I'll burn for thy sake, Marjory, spe of our age. Even in the professedly narrative poems of this day, the tale is most frequently a mere apology for digressions-a peg to hang disserta I will not say another word of this tions and descriptions on-in short, a ballad, which is given as a fair cimen of the state in which they are generally found," with all its imperfections on its head." It is only justice to add, that there are two exquisite passages in Mr Jamieson's copy. The first is the extremely natural description of Lady Maisry, when her brother asks who is the father of her child, with the simple and touching words put into her mouth. It is to be feared, however, from the antithetical smartness of the expression, that Jamieson has been polishing the language. She turn'd her richt and roun' about, An' her rosie cheek grew wan. Oh pardon me, my brither dear, - Its are the murmuring, dying notes, Oh! had my han's been loose, Willie, It is evident, that the nature of the lad is entirely alien to the poetry bond of union to the most heterogeneous materials, or, to speak hieroglyphically, a rope which binds together a heap of different substances, beautiful or not, as may happen, which, having no principle of attraction, would never have come together of their own accord, and, if accidentally placed side by side, would be separated again by the first wind that blew. What is Childe Harold but a nucleus, round which the bright fancies of the author may congregate, and stand "starlike around," until they gather to a god? Would the Excursion be irreparably damaged by omitting the interlocutions of the Parson, the Pedlar, and the Solitary? Would not a succession of wax-work figures, in appropriate attitudes and costume, passing in succession, under the view of Sir Walter Scott's descriptive pen, majority of his poems? Remember, be as interesting as an overwhelming reader, his poems! All these authors too well, and will not trust their reare men of genius, but they know it putation to works, the worth of which would seem to the vulgar more owing to the materials than the artist. One of them, indeed, goes to the other extreme, and will not allow, if he can help it, his subject to have any share with him in interesting the minds of our poets is a sufficient reader. This peculiar bias in the damper to any hopes of a revival of the ballad style of writing; but the failure of the attempts spoken of had another cause. In that species of word-painting which shews us the outline of the succession of events in human life, as one continuous stream of occurrences, and the states of the mind composing it at the different moments of its progress, as merely the physical points, which, in taking the survey of the whole, go for nothing-in this, the pleasure and interest derived by the mind flow from the grace or boldness of the primary windings and louring or peculiarity of conformation, sweeps of the line, not from any cowhich a microscopic eye might disco ver in any of the points. Its beauty or grandeur must, in character, resemble that of a country bare of trees, but where the unprejudiced eye may yet find a beauty in the outlines of the swelling hills, the winding brooks, and the sweeping margins of the lakes; or, the source of a higher-toned feeling, in the abrupt crags and deep glens. Modern poetry-the schools of Tasso and Ariosto, among the Italians, the writings of Chaucer, and of the great men of the age of Elizabeth-bears the same relation to the mere narrative versifiers that a wellwooded country does to such a one as above described. Some kind of earth is necessary to the maturity of the trees that rise and spread, and grow green on it; but its primary conformation is scarcely noticed, and although flat and common-place, passes uncensured beneath the leafy beauties that shroud it. These two kinds of poetry are both good in themselves, and their original difference seems to be this,-that the first, to be good, must be copied from immediate, minute, and long-continued inspection of human life; that the other may take a portion of this, and, by the showers of knowledge, and the genial warmth of imagination, may quicken into existence, and draw forth into beauty the germs that lie hid in it. The labour of the first poet is like that of the workman who purifies the ore; of the latter, like that of the artist who fashions it into graceful ornaments: or the former is like Salvator Rosa, a genius of grandeur and wildness, dashing noble outlines; the latter like one, who, when taking the hint from him, or making outlines of his own, should direct his attention to omitting none, even the most minute elegance of colouring and detail. The work of the one is best viewed at a distance, or in mass; that of the other can undergo and be benefited by the most searching attention. It follows from the understood nature of the ballad style of poetry, -its stern rejection of all extrinsic beauties, however cognate-that, to give it interest, it must be elaborated from a very minute inspection of actual existence: the picture must be so closely true to reality, that no beauty that is within its limited reach may be omitted, since all, a hair-breadth beyond it, must be cut off. The copy must be from nature, not from copies of it, however faithful; since, at every transmission, an additional degree of stiffness is necessarily acquired, unlike the original, and destructive of its beauty. Now, in defiance of this plain dictate of common sense, our restorers of ballad literature, (instead of taking for their subjects life as it fell under their view, by which way only could they have had any chance of producing something good, and essentially the same, although formally differing from the old ballads,) have uniformly chosen events which happened in times now living only in vague and remote tradition. The consequence is, that their "grating on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw," is about as like the professed objects of their imitation, as a map is to Switzerland. The map may serve to mark the relative situations of the most important places, but he who has lent a pleased ear to the glowing words of the traveller or poet, while expatiating on that magnificent region, gazes on the scrawled paper with a stupified, half sceptical, disappointed "Is this Switzerland?" But worse-mere fragments, of some of these models have come down to us; now, as even accurate copies of them would have an unpleasant coldness and stiffness, what must be the monster produced by cementing these pieces with long passages of modern writing, cut and dried after the most approved fashion? The answer is to be found in the ballads of truly-gifted writers; of Scott, and Hogg, for he, too, is, in his rank, a genius. But, oh! what words can justly express the failure of the servile imitators of "the Ariosto of the North ?" The creatures who, because they can marshal lines containing the exact number of syllables, with rhymes at the end of them, must, forsooth, set up for poets! Only look, gentle reader, at that immense crowd of witlings, who advance, and throw down upon the table, with such a mighty self-satisfied air, certain sheets of paper, whereon they have scribbled meaningless arrangements of the most common-place abstractions, of those dullest of dullards, who, THE LEGEND OF THE BELL ROCK: A TRADITIONARY STORY. THE Bell Rock is now known to Europe and America, from its conspicuous light-house, which, although inferior to the celebrated Pharos of Ptolemy, is perhaps the first, for elegance and utility united, in the modern world. Every body knows that the Inch Cape Rock received the name of the Bell Rock, from the traditionary story of a Bell once tolling there, the machinery of which was kept in motion by the fluctuations of the tide. The credit of this benevolent invention has generally been attributed to a pious Abbot Aberbrothock, (Arbroath;) it is also currently told, that the Bell was carried away by an avaricious Dutchman, who, by the retributive justice of Providence, was afterwards wrecked on the same rock. Hence the poem is conformable to popular tradition, the poetical embellishments being only in the subordinate parts of the story. See Encyclopædia Britannica, Supplement, Article Bell Rock. Again was heard the roundelay Resounding o'er the flowery dale; In court and cottage all were gay, And shepherds pip'd in every vale. The village maid, and high-born dame, No longer now afraid to love, Indulg'd the fond and secret flame, And whisper'd soft in shady grove; The glance of Hope each eye relum'd, And Independence stamp'd the brow; Shew'd such transcendent virgin grace, O'er Elliot's pure and pebbled stream, Where waving woods their branches spread, Impervious to the noontide gleam. Around the elm the woodbine twined, The weeping birch its head reclin'd, The scented wild-rose blushing fair, The fragrant primrose blossom'd there. The rude rock, grey in hoary pride, With cool and crystal drops would weep; While up its fringed and shaggy side Would green and clasping ivy creep. Nature had lavish'd all her care, To deck this rich romantic glen; And Brothock youths would oft repair To breathe the sweets of Kelly-den. And Ellenore, at early morn, Would oft her secret walks pursue; Her breath like fragrant blossom'd thorn, Her bosom pure as drops of dew. And she would seek her shady bower, O'er-hung with buds and branches fair; Herself the sweetest, fairest flower, Of aught that climb'd and blossom'd there. And she would join her matin song With woodland minstrels warbling round, While Echo would the strains prolong, And softly close the mellow sound. It chanced she sat, at evening hour, And mark'd the twilight's purple gleam, The green leaves flicker'd round her bower, The evening star shone bright between: 5 A The mavis made the valley ring, The cushat coo'd in covert nigh; She tried to join, but could not sing, Her heart was sad she knew not why. Her cheek lean'd on her ivory hand, Till daylight in the west declin'd; The shades of night crept o'er the land, And murmur'd sad the hollow wind. Soft slumbers o'er her senses stole, And Fancy sat on Reason's throne; Bright visions hover'd round her soul, And dreams of bliss, on earth unknown. She rais'd her eye, and wildly gaz’d; The evening star no longer beam'd; Above her head the meteor blaz❜d, And through the trees the lightning gleam'd. Amidst the elemental storm She felt her frame with terror shake; When, lo! a shadowy female form Before her stood, and slowly spake: "Soft be thy slumbers, Ellenore! Nor dreams disturb thy gentle sleep; Yet thou must dream, to wake once more Yes, lady fair! must wake, to weep! "But streams will glide, and floods o'erflow; Dark Winter howl and Summer shine; The flower will fade, the bud will blow ; And smiles and tears be, lady, thine!" She paus'd, and Ellen, trembling, said, "Mysterious being! speak again!" But, ah! the vision'd form had fledHad vanish'd in the dimwood glen. It was a long and dreary night That Ellenore in sadness pass'd; She mus'd till morn's returning light, And listen'd to the fitful blast. The sunny morning shines serene, Again she seeks her fav'rite bower; Bright dews impearl the velvet green, And fragrance breathes from bud and flower. But who is he, in plain array, That comes untimely to intrude; And thus would cross a lady's way With glances keen, and footsteps rude? A glow suffus'd his youthful cheek, His simple tale he faltering told, And lowly bow'd-he came to seek A vagrant lamb that left his fold. His manly form, his graceful air, And modest speech, attention claim; In wonder lost, the beauteous fair Is gazing on his youthful frame. Oh, lady! look not on the youth; And, Henry,-oh! forbear to gaze Resistless Love was lurking there; His shaft was fitted to the string; His aim was true-it pierced the pair, Swift as the bolt on lightning's wing. Regardless of her high-born birth, She lov'd, and pledg'd her faith sincere; Ye proud, but sordid sons of earth, Suppress that smile, that sapient sneer! Does not the woodbine's spicy bloom Round mountain-fir with fondness twine? The gentle rosebud breathe perfume, And in the hawthorn's shade recline? But now, on Scotian hills around, The martial clang is heard afar; And Kelly's lord, in fealty bound, Attends his monarch to the war. And Henry, too, impell'd by love, Seeks laurels in the tented field; Resolv'd his prowess there to prove, His crook exchang'd for spear and shield. "Oh! weep not thus-dear Ellenore!" He said, and sooth'd the sorrowing maid; "Our better fate has bliss in store, Though Heaven that bliss has long delay'd. "I go, your father's life to guard, In danger's hour by him to stand; When we return, I, for reward, Will kneel, and claim my Ellen's hand." What parting tears the lovers shed It boots not here in verse to tell; Nor pause we o'er the "mighty dead," On Durham's field, who fought and fell. Oh! why is Ellen's cheek so pale, While tears her heaving bosom stain? Oh! she has heard the fatal tale Her father and her lover slain ! In vain the spring's returning bloom! Each blossom adds to her despair; She seeks a convent's cloister'd gloom, To mourn her secret sorrows there. In Aberbrothock's hallow'd pile", Her hapless lord is all unknown; With orisons, at dawn of day, And vesper hymns, at evening hour, They try to chase her griefs away, And cheer this early blighted flower. But still the Abbess fix'd her eyes On Kelly, more than Ellenore; And sought to lure her beauteous prize, To leave these hallow'd courts no more. “The world,” she said, “is cross and care; Love flatters only to beguile; And wealth is but a specious snare, That lures the heart with syren smile. "But here is a perpetual calm, Each jarring passion hush'd to rest; While hope diffuses heavenly balm, The sunshine of the eloudless breast." Twelve lingering months to grief are given; And now the youthful Ellenore Resolves to yield her heart to Heaven, And sigh for earthly bliss no more. At morn, the bells, with solemn peal, The sun with golden lustre shines Around St Thomas' hallow'd towers; And imag'd saints, in sacred shrines, Are crown'd with wreaths of virgin flowers. The matin song, the choral swell, Resounding, strike the raptur'd ear, They echo o'er each distant cell, And vestals wipe the joyous tear. The holy rites are now begun, And clouds of incense, curling high, Obscure the splendour of the sun, And scatter fragrance o'er the sky. The Abbey of Aberbrothock was founded by King William the Lion, in the twelfth century, and dedicated to St Thomas à Becket. Hence it is called St Thomas's. The solemn anthem's lofty chime glows; The pealing organ swells sublime, Its full-ton'd diapason flows. It echoes o'er the hallow'd choir, Inspires the heart with holy love; It fans Devotion's sacred fire, And lifts the soul to heaven above. The priest before the altar kneels, The golden censer smoking near; The spousal hymn triumphant peals, And bids the virgin bride appear. As slow the sacred floor she treads, The blushing flowers more softly bloom, Anew they raise their drooping heads, And breathe around their rich perfume: But, ah! her cheek no longer glows, For it is faded, blanch'd, and pale; No more she smiles fair Kelly's rose, But droops the lily of the vale! The victim comes, while sisters wait, O'er her the sacred veil to throw ; When led within the hallow'd gate, She'll bid farewell to all below. One moment's pause-one parting look! What hast thou seen-sad Ellenore? Her soul with sudden anguish shook She scream'd, and sunk upon the floor! Has Henry, whom so long she 'mourn'd, The maid is borne from Brothock's towers; Their hands and hearts in love entwin'd; Before them bright the prospect lay, While every care was cast behind : But Henry now must leave the fair, On wings of love he'll soon return. He's gone arriv'd-his duty done— Why should he now prolong his stay? He knows that Ellen pines alone, And, sighing, mourns his long dełny. He finds a bark for Brothock's shore; Unmoor'd, they bend the blacken'd sail; He thinks of love and Ellenore, And swiftly scuds before the gale. |