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uninteresting. Mr Scott, a poet entirely national, has naturally enough awakened national enthusiasm in his favour. The mere local interest of the scenery has been added to his other attractions; and his poems have been the companion and the guide of those, who sought to explore the, beauties of his native country.

In reviewing a poem of this description, it is usual to begin with an analysis of the story. After due consideration, we do not see any advantages attendant on this practice. To those who have read the poem, it must be superfluous; to those who have not, it is impairing the pleasure they are to derive from it. Even to those who are destined never to peruse it, such a meagre outline can communicate no portion of the pleasure which it is calculated to yield. A better idea may perhaps be conveyed by giving a brief sketch of the persons who figure as its leading cha

racters.

The most prominent, by far, and the one who excites the greatest interest, is Bertram. This personage had originally been a buccaneer, and, in that savage and adventurous character, had roved over all the American coasts. Such a course of life had obliterated every trace of gentleness or mercy, which might have been implanted in his rugged nature. He appears now as an accomplished ruffian, insensible to every claim of pity or remorse, and only to be shaken by the terrors of superstition. The terrible energy of his character, his matchless force and courage, and the dreadful scenes into which he precipitates himself, inspire, however, a species of admiration and fearful interest. This cannot be said of the

high-born sharer of his guilt, Oswald Wycliffe, whose villany, mingled with cowardice, inspires only disgust. A more interesting object is found in Martham, once a bold and warlike leader, but who, betrayed into an in

voluntary crime, has become the prey of ceaseless remorse.

A character strongly contrasted with all these, and very ill-suited to the rude period in which he lived is Wilfred. Although he be the minstrel of the poem, he is not drawn with that fond partiality, which the author has shewn in his other productions for that gifted character. He seems rather to exhibit him as a beacon, to deter others from rashly devoting themselves to similar pursuits. This votary of the Muse is represented as unfit for all active life, a visionary, and finally the victim of hopeless love.

Matilda and Redmond are the proper heroine and hero of the tale; they are, as usual, adorned with every accomplishment; are formed for each other, and finally united. They do not, however, appear till far on in the poem, and never occupy any very prominent share in the reader's atten

tion.

Among the subordinate characters, we may mention Denzil, the leader of a party of robbers, and the associate of Bertram. But we viewed with more pleasure one of his band, Edmund, a youth and a poet, who, not yet hardened, rues, at every interval, his guilty trade, and laments his days of innocence, and the maid whom he has forsaken. His songs, and simple lamentations, form one of the most interesting parts of the poem.

It is now time to present our readers with some specimens of the execution of Rokeby. We shall begin with the description of Wilfrid, the love sick minstrel.

Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,
Was Fancy's spoiled and wayward child ;
In her bright car she bade him ride,

With one fair form to grace his side;
Or, in some wild and lone retreat,
Flung her high spells around his seat,
Bathed in her dews his languid head,
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread;
For him her opiates gave to flow,
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego,

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And placed him in her circle, free
From every stern reality;
Till, to the Visionary, seem

Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream.

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind;

And woe to those who traiu such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stiahy glows the steel!
O teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glowed with promised good :
Remind him of each wish enjoyed,
How soon his hopes possession cloyed!
Tell him, we play unequal game,
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ;
And, ere he strip him for her race,
Shew the conditions of the chace.
Two Sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret ;
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize,
While one augments its gaudy show,
More to enhance the loser's woe.
The victor sees his fairy gold
Transformed, when won, to drossy mold,
But still the vanquished mourns his loss,
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.

More wouldst thou know-yon tower sur-vey,

Yon couch unpressed since parting day,
Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam
Is mingling with the cold moon-beam,
And yon thin form !-the hectic red
On his pale cheek unequal spread;
The head reclined, the loosened hair,
The limbs relaxed, the mournful air.-
See, he looks up ;- a woeful smile
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while,-
"Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought,
To gild the ruin she has wrought;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes,
Her pinions fan the wound she makes,
And, soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein.
Now to the lattice turn his eyes,
Vain hope to see the sun arise.
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast,
Still howls by fits, the stormy blast;
Another hour must wear away
Ere the East kindle into day,
And, hark! to waste that weary hour,
He tries the minstrel's magic power.

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TO THE MOON.

Hail to thy cold and clouded beam,

Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky! Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream Lend to thy brow their sullen dye! How should thy pure and peaceful eye Untroubled view our scenes below, Or how a tearless beam supply

To light a world of war and woe!

Fair Queen! I will not blame thee now,
As once by Greta's fairy side;
Each little cloud that dimmed thy brow
Did then an angel's beauty hide.
And of the shades I then could chide,

Still are the thoughts to memory dear,
For, while a softer strain 1 tried,

They hid my blush, and calmed my fear, Then did I swear thy ray serene

Was formed to light some lonely dell, By two fond lovers only seen,

Reflected from the crystal well;
Or sleeping on their mossy cell,

Or quivering on the lattice bright,
Or glancing on their couch, to tell
How swiftly wanes the summer night!

We shall now present a specimen of a very opposite description. It relates to Bertram, before whose eyes the combined influence of remorse and superstition call up a visionary form. Instead of flying from it, his fierce hardihood prompts him to pursue and seek to grasp it.

Thus, as a man, a youth, a child,
Train'd in the mystic and the wild,
With this on Bertram's soul at times
Rushed a dark feeling of his crimes;
Such to his troubled soul their form,
As the pale death-ship to the storm,
And such their omen dim and dread,
As shrieks and voices of the dead.
That pang, whose transitory force
Hovered 'twixt horror and remorse;
That pang, perchance, his bosom pressed,
As Wilfrid sudden he addressed.
"Wilfrid, this glen is never trod
Until the sun rides high abroad,
Yet twice have I beheld to-day
A form that seem'd to dog our way;
Twice from my glance it seemed to flee,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree.
How think'st thou ?-is our path way-laid,
Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed?
If so"-Ere, starting from his dream,
That turned upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to reply,
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high,
"Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand!"
And forth he darted, sword in hand.

As

As bursts the levin in its wrath,
He shot him down the sounding path;
Rock, wood, and stream, rung wildly out,
To his loud step and savage shout.
Seems that the object of his race
Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chace
Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent
Right up the rock's tall battlement;
Straining each sinew to ascend,

Foot, hand, and knee their aid must lend.
Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay,
Views from beneath his dreadful way:
Now to the oak's warped roots he clings,
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings;
Now, like the wild goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air;
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You inark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank,

And by the stones spurn'd from the bank,
And by the hawk scared from her nest,
And ravens croaking o'er their guest,
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay
The tribute of his bold essay.

See, he emerges !desperate now
All farther course-yon beetling brow,
In craggy nakedness sublime,

What heart or foot shall dare to climb ?
It bears no tendril for his clasp,
Presents no angle to his grasp;
Sole stay his foot may rest upon,
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop,
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his faithless footstool shakes!
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways, it loosens, it descends !

And downward holds its headlong way,
Crashing o'er rock and copse-wood spray.
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell!
Fell it alone?-alone it fell.
Just on the very verge of fate,
The hardy Bertram's falling weight
He trusted to his sinewy hands,
And on the top unharmed he stands !

Our readers may now be desirous to see an example of Mr Scott's descriptive powers. The following passage paints the aspect of Rokeby it. self, and of the romantic scenery on the Tees, immediately adjoining.

Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high
Were northward in the dawning seen
To rear them o'er the thicket green.
O then, though Spenser's self had strayed
Beside him through the lovely glade,
Lending his rich luxuriant glow
Of fancy, all its charms to show,
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Pointing the stream rejoicing free,
As captive set at liberty,
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad,
And clamouring joyful on her road;
Pointing where, up the sunny banks,
The trees retire in scattered ranks,
Save where, advanced before the rest,
On knoll or hillock rears his crest,
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak;

As champions, when their band is broke,
Stand forth to guard the rearward post,
The bulwark of the scattered host-
All this, and more, might Spenser say,
Yet waste in vain his magic lay,
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower,
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower.
The open vale is soon past o'er,
Rokeby, though nigh, seen no more;
Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep,
A wild and darker course they keep,

A stern and lone, yet lovely road,
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode !
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell,
Deeper and narrower grew the dell;
It seemed some mountain rent and riven,
A channel for the stream had given,
So high the cliff's of limestone grey
Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way,
Yielding, along their rugged base,
A flinty footpath's niggard space,
Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave,
May hear the headlong torrent rave,
And like a steed in frantic fit,

That flings the froth from curb and bit,
May view her chafe her waves to spray,
O'er every rock that bars her way,
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride,
Thick as the schemes of human pride,
That down life's current drive amain,
As frail, as frothy, and as vain!

The cliffs, that rear the haughty head
High o'er the river's darksome bed,
Were now all naked, wild, and grey,
Now waving all with greenwood spray ;
Here trees to every crevice clung,
And o'er the dell their branches hung;
And there, all splintered and uneven,
The shivered rocks ascend to heaven;
Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast,
And wreath'd its garland round their crest,
Or from the spires bade loosely flare
Its tendrils in the middle air.
As pennons wont to wave of old
O'er the high feast of Baron bold,
When revelled loud the feudal rout,
And the arched halls returned their shout,
Such and more wild is Greta's roar,
And such the echoes from her shore,
And so the ivied banners gleam,
Wav'd wildly o'er the brawling stream.

It is now time to introduce our, readers to the heroine of the piece. Wreathed

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Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, Half hid and half revealed to view Her full dark eye of hazel hue. The rose, with faint and feeble streak, So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, That you had said her hue was pale ; But if she faced the summer gale, Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, Or heard the praise of those she loved, Or when of interest was expressed Aught that waked feeling in her breast, The mantling blood in ready play Rivalled the blush of rising day. There was a soft and pensive grace, A cast of thought upon her face, That suited well the forehead high, The eye-lash dark and down-cast eye; The mild expression spoke a mind In duty firm, composed, resigned;'Tis that which Roman art has given, To mark their maiden Queen of heaven. In hours of sport, that mood gave way To Fancy's light and frolic play, And when the dance, or tale, or song, In harmless mirth sped time along, Full oft her doating sire would call His Maud the merriest of them all. But days of war, and civil crime, Allowed but ill such festal time, And her soft pensiveness of brow Had deepened into sadness now. In Marston field her father ta'en, Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain, While every ill her soul foretold, From Oswald's thirst of power and gold, And boding thoughts that she must part With a soft vision of her heart.--All lowered around the lovely maid, To darken her dejection's shade.

The description of the conflagration of the castle of Rokeby is both striking in itself, and may, from some wellknown circumstances, excite the curi osity of our readers. Mr Scott, we think, has evidently been on his guard against a certain imitation of his style, and has guarded successfully.

Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold,
Than ere from battle-thunders rolled;
So dense, the combatants scarce know
To aim or to avoid the blow.
Smothering and blindfold grows the fight-
But soon shall dawn a dismal light!
'Mid cries, and cleshing arms, there came
The hollow sound of rushing flame;
New horrors on the tumult dire
Arise-the castle is on fire
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand,
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand.

Matilda saw-for frequent broke,

From the dim casements gusts of smoke.
Yon tower, which late so clear defined
On the fair hemisphere reclined,
That, pencilled on its azure pure,
The eye could count each embrazure,
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud,
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud ;
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light,
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright,
And, gathering to united glare,
Streams high into the midnight air,
A dismal beacon far and wide
That wakened Greta's slumbering side.
Soon all beneath, through gallery long,
And pendant arch, the fire flashed strong,
Snatching whatever could maintain,
Raise, or extend, its furious reign,
Startling, with closer cause of dread,
The females who the conflict fled,
And now rushed forth upon the plain,
Filling the air with clamours vain.

Oft Matilda looked behind,

As up the vale of Tees they wind,
Where far the mansion of her sires
Beaconed the dale with midnight fires.
In gloomy arch above thein spread,
The clonded heaven lowered bloody red;
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood
Appeared to roll in waves of blood.
Then, one by one, was heard to fall
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall.
Each rushing down with thunder sound,
A space the conflagration drowned;
Till, gathering strength, again it rose,
Announced its trumph in its close,
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er,
Then sunk-and Rokeby was no more,

On the appearance of any new work of a well-known author, the first question always is, if it be better or worse than its predecessors; and the public seem to read chiefly with the view of ascertaining this comparative merit. For our parts, if we have derived great pleasure from a poem, we are satisfied with its absolute excellence, and do not think it very necessary to try it by this relative standard. We have not there

fore made any elaborate comparison; yet, were we asked the question, we should give the following, as our general impression :-The poetical merits of the composition appear to us very much on a level with Mr Scott's former works, but the general

effect

effect not quite so pleasing. The cause appears to us to arise chiefly from the choice of the subject, and particularly of the characters. The. principal actors in the poem are all ruffians of the lowest description. The energy indeed of Bertram's character somewhat redeems his villany, yet not so as to fit him to be, as he is, the leading personage. The marauders, and fierce chieftains of an earlier age, were not, perhaps, according to strict morality, superior to these; yet the great scale on which their crimes were performed, and the involuntary admiration of rank and power, threw round them a romantic interest, which cannot be excited by the common robbers and ruffians of modern society. We feel, perhaps, a national jealeusy, to see Mr Scott's muse passing the Tweed; we would willingly lure him back to feudal and Scottish themes.

New Works published in Edinburgh.

E NCYCLOPEDIA Britannica; or a Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Miscellaneous Literature. Fifth edition, enlarged and improved. llustrated by nearly 600 Engravings. Vol. I. Part I. 4to. 18s.

Rokeby, a Poem. By Walter Scott, Esq. 4to. 21. 25.

Journal of a Residence in India. By Maria Graham. 4to. 17.115.6d. Travels in the island of Iceland, during the summer of the year 1810. By Sir George Mackenzie, Bart. Second edition. 4to. 3/. 3s.

Fauna Orcadensis; or the Natural History of the Quadrupeds, Birds, Reptiles, and Fishes, of Orkney and Shetland. By the Rev. George Low, Minister of Birsa and Haray. From a MS. in the possession of Mr Elford Leaoh, M. D. F. L. S. 4to. 11. Is.

Essay on the Principles of Transla

tion, 3d edition, with large additions and alterations. By the late Lord Woodhouselee. 8vo. 12s.

Report on Weights and Measures. By a Committee of the Highland Society. 8vo. 2s. 6d.

Supplement to the View of the political state of Scotland. By James Brydges, Esq. W. S. 8vo. 1s.

Literary Intelligence.

PROPOSALS have been circulated for

reprinting in London, the French Moniteur, verbatim et literatim, and the names of subscribers are invited at eight guineas per annum. Among other reasons, it is alledged that, "in regard to foreign news, the English press is now nearly in the same state of degradation as the press of Russia; that the foreign intelligence is garbled and miserably translated, chiefly by one hand in a public office; that important facts are often suppressed, coloured, and distorted; that French Bulletins and other documents are often kept back for successive days, for stock-jobbing and other corrupt purposes; and, in fine, that few or no foreign papers now reach London, except through Ministers, or Newspapers under controul." The Moniteur abounds in literary and philosophical articles, and its republication in London would, we should think, be extensively patronized.

The Rev. H. H. Baber, of the British Museum, has completed his publication of a Fac-simile of the Greek Text of the Book of Psalms, as preserved in that most ancient Manuscript of the LXX. Version of the Old Testament, the Codex Alexan'drinus.

The same gentleman intends to publish, by subscription, a Fac-simile of the Pentateuch after the same manuscript. He remarks, in his prospectus, that the Codex Alexandrinus is a Greek Manuscript, comprising

the

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