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185 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 still stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish song, '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 fancy, 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.

Mickle would have excelled in the Scottish dialect, and in portraying Scottish life, had he truly known his own strength, and trusted to the impulses of his heart instead of his ambition.

Cumnor Hall.

The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon-sweet regent of the sky-
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now nought was heard beneath the skies-
The sounds of busy life were still-
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.

'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft has sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

'Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark so blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

If that my beauty is but small,
Among court-ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was
prized?

'And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say !
And,proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuadedwisely, we think-by Mr. Constable, his publisher, to adopt the title of Kenilworth.

E. L. v. iv.-7

'Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily's dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

'For know, when sickening grief doth prey,

And tender love 's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beanty will decay:

What floweret can endure the storm?

'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare,
That eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds

Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my passing beauty rare.

But, Leicester--or I much am wrongIt is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Then, Leicester, why, again I pleadThe injured surely nay repineWhy didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine ?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms

And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the livelong day?

'The village maidens of the plain

Salute me lowly as they go: Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy 's their estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; To be content, than to be great. 'How far less blest am I than them, Daily to pre and waste with care!

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say: "Countess, prepare-thy end is near."

'And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep,

Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; Still that dread death-bell smites my

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There's nae Luck about the House.'
There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

The Mariner's Wife, or
But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
There's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Is this a time to think o' wark,

When Colin 's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

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And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-
He likes to see them braw.

Bring down to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue;
His breath 's like caller air;

His very fit has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
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 nae mair to crave,

And gin I live to mak him say,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

The following is the addition made by Dr. Beattie :

The cauld blasts of the winter wind
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I hae him safe,
Till death we 'll never part.

But what put parting in my head?
It may be far awa;

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

The Spirit of the Cape.-From the ‘Lusiad.'
Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled;
From these rude shores our fearless course we held:
Beneath the glistening wave the god of day
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray,
When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread,
And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head

A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far
The moon' paleg impse, nor faintly tw nkling star;
So deep a gloom the lowering vapour cast,
Transfixed with awe the bravest stood aghast.
Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds,
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds,
Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning heaven,
The wonted signs of gathering tempest given,
Amazed we stood-O thou, our fortune's guide,
Avert this omen, mighty God, I cried;

Or through forbidden climes adventurous strayed,
Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed,

* In the author's manuscript button gown.'

Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky
Were doomed to hide from man's uuhallowed eye?
Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more

Than midnight tempest and the mingled roar,
When sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore.
I spoke, when rising through the darkened air,
Appalled, we saw a hideous phantom glare;
High and enormous o'er the flood he towered,
And thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered.
Uncarthly paleness o'er his checks were spread,
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red;

Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose,

Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows;
His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind,
Revenge and horror in his inien combined;
His clouded front, by withering lightning scared,
The inward anguish of his sonf declared.
His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves
Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore
With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar.
Cold gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast;
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed
Wild dread; the while with visage ghastly wan,
His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began:
"O you, the boldest of the nations, fired
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired,
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose,
Through these my waves advance your fearless prows,
Regardless of the lengthening watery way,

And all the storms that own my sovereign sway,
Who 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore.
Where never hero braved my rage before;

Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane,
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign,

Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew,
To veil her secret shrine from mortal view.
Hear from my lips what direful woes attend,
And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend.
'With every bounding keel that dares my rage,
Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage;
The next proud fleet that through my dear domain,
With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane,
That gallant navy by my whirlwinds tossed,
And raging seas, shall perish on my coast.
Then he who first my secret, reign descried,
A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide
Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail,
O Lusus! oft shalt thou thy children wail;
Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore,
Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore.'

He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew,
A doleful sound, and vanished from the view;
The frightened billows gave a rolling swell,
And distant far prolonged the dismal yell;
Faint and more faint the howling echoes die,
And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky.

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY.

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY (1724-1805) was author of the New Bath Guide,' a light satirical and humorous poem, original in design, and

6

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 Eton 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.

Now my lord had the honour of coming down post,

To pay his respects to so famous a toast;

In hopes he her ladyship's favour might win,

By playing the part of a host at an inn.

I'm sure he's a person of great resolution,

Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution;

For he carried us all to a place 'cross the river,

And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver:

He said it would greatly our pleasure promote,

If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat:

I never as yet could his reason explain,

Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain;

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