horses, that had been carefully rubbed down over night, is bedaubed with clay, and the horse that Marmion rode, is dying in the stall. A consultation ensues on the question who shall dare to communicate such intelligence to the knight; and all dreaded his indignation when those incidents should be related. Marmion, contrary to all belief, gives but a cold attention to the tale, and bids his attendants prepare for their journey. All these circumstances are most beautifully pointed to the preceding events, and they are such as none but a master hand can employ to advantage. Again, when Marmion dies his attendants behold the first symptoms of his discomfiture appearing:

Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.

Shortly after a wounded knight is dragged from beneath the feet of the contending horses-the plumage of his helmet soiled by the dust, his hand still grasping the fragment of his sword. How much is implied by that simple circumstance! It was not a blade, but the fragment of one, one that had done hard duty-one that still testified vengeance to be his predominant passion in his dying hour. When life is ebbing from his veins, and the half inanimate body is insensible to the remonstrances of the monk, who desires him to think of his eternal welfare, the cry of victory arouses expiring nature.

"Thrice o'er his head

le swung the fragment of a blade;

Charge, Chester charge-on Stanley on,
Were the last words of Marmion.”

Marmion, notwithstanding his glaring defects, we believe may be trusted to posterity on the strength of his own merits. There is a redeeming energy of genius in the page as incapable of explanation as of imitation, which, whether it acts in unison with or hostile to all our moral feelings, or our judgment, still preserves its tyrannous ascendancy. The present poem does not merit a character so high. Occasional sparkles and corruscations we observe, but they are only occasional. We

are admonished, by a few blossoms scattered at random, that the soil is prolific and abundant; but when we search for a race of flowers worthy of the soil, we are convinced that the gardener has not profusely planted the seed, and but slightly superintended the culture of those he has planted. Beguiled by an indolence, conferred by reputation, we believe Mr. Scott to have entrusted this volume to the public; he ought to reflect that fame, and more especially literary fame, is no easy chair to the occupant. It affords nothing of what Cowper calls "the soft recumbency of outstretched limbs."

It were to be wished that eminent authors could know when they had written enough, unless they resolve to persevere in their former style of writing. An avaricious rival is ever ready to snatch the laurel from the brow when the head is slumbering that is honoured with it; and difficult indeed is the labour of recovering a prize so splendid, and so much panted after. The tyranny of Buonaparte is not borne with more reluctance, subjected to more envy, or liable to more casualty than literary fame. The latter, moreover, has this peculiar quality attendant, and almost inseparable from it, that we doze in proportion as we enjoy. The laurel is dipped in the waters of Lethe before it is presented for our acceptance; a deceptive security in which Buonaparte refuses to participate. Should this little volume be the prototype of Mr. Scott's future labours, we should not hesitate to say,

ORIGINAL POETRY-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

The following is an imperfect tribute to the memory of an amiable and regretted friend, whose deprivation of reason, and subsequent death were occasioned by the ungenerous and culpable conduct of others.

WHY beam those eyes with such unusual fire?
What mean those sudden bursts of trembling ire?
Why dost thou hold such wild untutor❜d speech,
To absent objects far beyond thy reach?
MADNESS! alas! hath Reason's empire shook,
And lends that fearful brilliance to thy look;
Bids thee hold converse with the motley crew
Disorder'd Fancy beckons to thy view;

Tells thy broad sight on vacancy to roll,

And prompts the wondrous movements of thy soul.
Voices, which 'twas a happiness to hear,
Unheeded find an entrance to thy ear;
And Friendship's gentle services are lost
On thy poor heart, by Frenzy's tumult tost.
Time was thine eye a milder flame reveal'd,
And their full tide at Pity's call would yield;
When sweet Affection's smile thy breast could move,
To cherish there the generous glow of love.
But like some rude, ungentle hand that sweeps
The trembling strings, where melting music sleeps,
Was his, who basely to thy bosom stole,

And struck the sweetest chord that strung thy soul;
'Twas that which wrought destruction to thy peace,
And bade the mental reign of reason cease;

Turn'd thy fair smiles to glooms that madness wears,
And blasted all the promise of thy years!

But soft-the sad, the piteous scene is o'er;
The eye that glar'd so wildly, glares no more;
Dim is its beam; the lips no more repeat
The language fram'd in frenzy's fev'rish heat;

The soul exulting at the mandate giv❜n,
Sprung on the glitt'ring wings of Hope to heav'n,
To worlds ætherial aim'd its eagle flight,

And woke at once to reason and to light

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

LINES TO PAINTING.

SWEET Art! whose magic touches warm,
Can pencil Beauty's softest form;
Whose hand can clothe in loveliest dye
Scenes that delight Affection's eye,
And shed a bright and lasting beam
O'er Mem'ry's fondest, dearest dream.
Sweet Art! full oft thy wond'rous pow'r
Hath breath'd a calm o'er Sprrow's hour;
Full oft my soul hath joy'd to dwell
On features lov'd so long, so well;
On eyes where Beauty's glances dwelt,
And told the throb the bosom felt;

On cheeks in roseate tints array'd,

And lips where cherub smiles have play'd,
Oh! I have gaz'd, till Fancy thought

Those eyes the ray of life had caught;
That Animation's circling flow

Hath lent those cheeks their healthful glow,

And oft has Fancy paus'd to hear
Those lips with accent hail the ear.
Fair Flora owns thy pow'r to save

W.

Beneath thy mellow hues, the rose
In beauty's gay luxuriance blows,
And ev❜n the simplest of the train
Smiles on thine artificial plain.
But ah! when Nature's wilder form
Claims, sweet Art! thy touches warm,
When thy curious eye essays

To glance o'er wide Creation's maze,
And from her mingled store to choose
Fair forms, and clothe them in thy hues,
'Tis then that Admiration loves

To gaze upon thy verdant groves,

And skies that blush with birth of dawn,
And sweet expanse of shaven lawn,
And tow'ring forest, tufted mount,
Unruffled lake, and placid fount,
Stately villa, simple cot,

Woven arbour, cooling grot,

The shepherd, with his fleecy care,
The horse, the hound, the flying hare,
The winding vale of softest green,
The brook that flows its banks between,
The distant turret through the trees,
All, all, beneath thy colouring, please.
Or, if sublimer scenes demand
The skilful magic of thy hand,
Then 'neath thy pencil's faithful dyes
We see the forms of terror rise;
The deep and angry flood that pours
Impetuous through its rocky shores;
The tumbling cataracts that leap
With fury o'er the fearful steep,
Or ocean's billows raging high,
And warring with the lurid sky;
The shatter'd tempest-driven barque
Dash'd on the breakers rude and dark,
The sea-boy clinging to the wreck,
Wash'd by the white surge from the deck,