earnestly believed it to be a pattern of pathetic simplicity, and gave it out as such to the admiration of all intelligent readers. In this point of view, the work may be regarded as curious at least, if not in some degree interesting; and, at all events, it must be instructive to be made aware of the excesses into which superior understandings may be betrayed, by long self-indulgence, and the strange extravagances into which they may run, when under the influence of that intoxication which is produced by unrestrained admiration of themselves. This poetical intoxication, indeed, to pursue the figure a little farther, seems capable of assuming as many forms as the vulgar one which arises from wine; and it appears to require as delicate a management to make a man a good poet by the help of the one, as to make him a good companion by means of the other. In both cases a little mistake as to the dose or the quality of the inspiring fluid may make him absolutely outrageous, or lull him over into the most profound stupidity, instead of brightening up the hidden stores of his genius and truly we are concerned to say, that Mr. Wordsworth seems hitherto to have been unlucky in the choice of his liquor or of his bottle-holder. In some of his odes and ethic exhortations, he was exposed to the public in a state of incoherent rapture and glorious delirium, to which we think we have seen a parallel among the humbler lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Ballads, he was exhibited, on the whole, in a vein of very pretty deliration; but in the poem before us, he appears in a state of low and maudlin imbecility, which would not have misbecome Master Silence1 himself, in the close of a social day. Whether this unhappy result is to be ascribed to any adulteration of his Castalian2 cups, or to the unlucky choice of his company over them, we cannot presume to say. It may be that he has dashed his Hippocrene 3 with too large an infusion of lake1 water, or assisted its operation too exclusively by the study of the ancient historical ballads of "the north countrie." That there are palpable imitations of the style and manner 1 Cf. Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part II. 2 from the Castalian fountain on Mt. Parnassus, sacred to the Muses 3 a fountain on Mt. Helicon, sacred to the Muses a jesting allusion to Wordsworth's residence in the Lake district of those venerable compositions in the work before us, is indeed undeniable; but it unfortunately happens, that while the hobbling versification, the mean diction, and flat stupidity of these models are very exactly copied, and even improved upon, in this imitation, their rude energy, manly simplicity, and occasional felicity of expression, have totally disappeared; and, instead of them, a large allowance of the author's own metaphysical sensibility, and mystical wordiness, is forced into an unnatural combination with the borrowed beauties which have just been mentioned. O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. 28 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 32 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire, within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale,1 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 36 And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 40 44 48 With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 52 They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; While Scalds1 yelled out the joys of fight. And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled On Christmas eve the bells were rung; Then opened wide the baron's hall And Ceremony doffed her pride. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 60 1 poets 2 in the Other-world, where heroes fought and feasted forever 3 The Mass is not celebrated at night except at Christmas.without loss of dignity 50 40 30 20 What dogs before his death he tore, The wassail round, in good brown bowls, It was a hearty note, and strong. 70 80 White skirts supplied the masquerade, Instant, through copse and heath, arose ΙΟ 20 Sir Roderick marked, and in his eyes IO Short space he stood, then waved his hand: Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood: Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low: It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon and plaid and plumage fair, The next but swept a lone hillside, Where heath and fern were waving wide; The sun's last glance was glinted back, 20 From spear and glaive, from targe and jack, 6 The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green, and cold grey stone. Such apparition well might seem 20 ΙΟ Fear naught - nay, that I need not sayBut doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest; I pledged my word As far as Coilantogle ford:1 Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand, Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. So move we on; I only meant To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." They moved; - I said Fitz-James was brave, As ever knight that belted glaive; Yet dare not say that now his blood Kept on its wont and tempered flood, As, following Roderick's stride, he drew That seeming lonesome pathway through, Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife With lances, that, to take his life, Waited but signal from a guide, So late dishonoured and defied. Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanished guardians of the ground, And still, from copse and heather deep, Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, And in the plover's shrilly strain The signal whistle heard again. Nor breathed he free till far behind The pass was left; for then they wind Along a wide and level green, Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, Nor rush nor bush of broom was near, To hide a bonnet or a spear. XII The Chief in silence strode before, And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 30 40 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines And here his course the Chieftain stayed, ΙΟ 1 at the east end of Loch Vennachar 2 Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar a moor in which are the ruins of a Roman camp And to the Lowland warrior said: "Bold Saxon! to his promise just, Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. And thou must keep thee with thy sword." XIII 20 The Saxon paused: "I ne'er delayed, Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, ΙΟ Are there no means?" "No, Stranger, none And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal, The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life His party conquers in the strife."" "Then, by my word," the Saxon said, “The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, There lies Red Murdock,2 stark and stiff. Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me. To James, at Stirling, let us go, When, if thou wilt be still his foe, Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favour free, I plight my honour, oath, and word, That, to thy native strengths restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand, That aids thee now to guard thy land." XIV 20 Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: 1 the descendant of Alpine 2 a guide who tried to betray him 3 a foot-soldier AE ΙΟ He yields not, he, to man nor fate! Of this small horn one feeble blast 20 But fear not - doubt not which thou wilt We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." XV Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; 30 IO 20 1 For the story of the braid and his oath, see Canto IV, xxi-xxviii. |