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worth.'* The plot is interesting, and the versification easy and musical. Mickle assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads'-in which ‘Cumnor Hall' and other pieces of his first appeared ; and though 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 siill stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish sony, 'The Mariner's Wife,' but better known as 'There's nae Luck about the House,' which 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 being 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 fincy, 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.
When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved, And many an oak that grew thereby. No chilling fears did me appal.
* Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuaded wisely, we think-by Mr. Constable, bis 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.
The humble charms of solitude; 'For know, when sickening grief doth Your minions proud my peace destroy, prey,
By suilen frowns, or pratings rade. 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-tby end is near."
Where every lady's passing rare,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ;
No one to soothe me as I weep, • Then, Earl, 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 smites my Must sicken when 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 :
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, • But, Leicester--or I 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 Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard, •Then, Lcicester, why, again I plead
And many a cry of mortal fear. The injured surely nay repineWhy didst thoc 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 Comnor Hall. • Why didst thou 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 naidens 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 Cumpor Hall, Nor think a countess can have woe.
The village maids, with fearful glance, • The sinple nymphs! they little know Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
How far more 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 content, than to be great.
Full many a traveller has sighed, • How far !css blest am I than them,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall, Daily to prue and waste with care i 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 inonth and mair, Is this a time to think o'wark?
Mak haste and thraw their neeks about, Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
That Colin weel may fare.
Bring down to me my bigonet,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal aud true.
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 will I see his face again ?
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,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
It may be far awa;
The neist we never saw.
Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled;
* In the author's manuscript button gown.'
of the st of thations in began.'
Which these wide solitades of seas and sky
I spoke, when rising throngh the darkened air,
.O you. the boldest of the nations, fired
With every bounding keel that dares my rage,
He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew,
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 prose. 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 Elon 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 erjoyment 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 his eightieth year. While on a visit to his son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, at Harnage, Wiltshire, he was taken ill, and died on the 3d of August 1805.
The Public Breakfast.