of Kenilworth; it was Constable who proposed the title Kenilworth after Scott had intended to give the novel the same name as the ballad. Mickle also wrote a play on The Siege of Marseilles, which Garrick refused; and the Prophecy of Queen Emma, on American independence. He assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads-in which Cumnor Hall and other pieces of his first appeared in 1784; and though he did not reproduce the direct simplicity and unsophisticated ardour of the real old ballads, he attained to something of their tenderness and pathos. He wrote a number of songs, the last being on his birthplace, Eskdale Braes. The famous Scotch song originally called, somewhat absurdly, The Mariner's Wife, but usually named from its chorus There's nae Luck about the House, is almost certainly Mickle's ; though in 1810 Cromek asserted it to be the work of Jean Adam (afterwards calling herself Miss Jane Adams), successively servant-maid in Greenock, schoolmistress, and hawker, who, born in 1710, died in 1765 in the Glasgow poorhouse, having published in 1734 a small volume of poor religious poems. There's nae Luck was sung in the streets about 1772, and was first asserted to be Jean's by some of her old pupils, without evidence. An imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among Mickle's manuscripts after his death; and his widow 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, but was not published till after his death, by the editor of his works (1806). Beattie (a kinsman of Mickle's) added a double stanza to this song, containing a happy epicurean fancy-which Burns, who commended the whole song as one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or any language,' said was 'worthy of the first poet :'

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

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.

'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 beauty 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 may 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 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 pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

66

Countess, prepare; thy end is near."

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped his wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,

The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for never more

That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller has sighed,

And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they 've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

There's nae Luck about the House.
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.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

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.

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.

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 (which has button gown' where 'cotton gown' is usually given)

another verse is added:

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave,

And gin I live to mak him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.

The following was the addition made by 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 puts 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's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling 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,
Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky

Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed eye?
Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more
Than midnight tempests 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.
Unearthly paleness o'er his cheeks was 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 mien combined;

His clouded front, by withering lightning scarred,
The inward anguish of his soul 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.
There is an edition of Mickle's works, with Life, by Sim (1809).
Mickle's translation of the Lusiad superseded that of Fanshawe,
and has been succeeded by those of Quillinan, Musgrave, Mitchell,
and Sir Richard Burton.

James Beattie (1735-1803) was the son of a small farmer and shopkeeper at Laurencekirk in Kincardine. He lost his father in childhood, but was assisted in his education by a kindly elder brother; and in his fourteenth year he obtained a bursary or exhibition (implying some proficiency in Latin) at Marischal College, Aberdeen. Having graduated and been appointed schoolmaster of the parish of Fordoun (1753), he was placed amidst scenery 'which stirred his love of nature and poetry. The scenes sketched in his Minstrel were plainly those in which he had grown up, and the feelings and aspirations therein expressed were those of his own boyhood and youth. In 1758 he was elected a master of the grammar-school of Aberdeen, and in 1760 Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in Marischal College. In 1761 he published a collection of poems and translations contributed from time to time to the Scots Magazine, the piece called Retirement being most noticeable. In 1765 appeared The Judgment of Paris, and some ungenerous verses on the death of Churchill. His ardour for what he held to be the truth led him at times into intolerance, and he was too fond of courting the notice and approbation of the great. In 1770 the poet appeared as a metaphysician in his Essay on Truth, where orthodox principles were defended in no very philosophical temper, and in a style which suffered by comparison with that of his illustrious opponent, David Hume. Next year the first part of The Minstrel was published, and was received with universal approbation. Honours flowed in on the fortunate author. He visited London, and was admitted to all its brilliant and distinguished circles; Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, and Reynolds were numbered among his friends. On a second visit in 1773 he had an interview with the king and queen, which resulted in a pension of £200 per annum. Oxford made him LL.D., and Reynolds painted his portrait in an allegorical picture, in which he was seen by the side of the angel of Truth, thrusting down Prejudice, Scepticism, and Folly (two of them meant for Hume and Voltaire). He was even promised preferment in the Church of England. The second part of the Minstrel was published in 1774; the projected third part never appeared. Domestic sorrows marred Beattie's otherwise happy lot. His wife became insane, and had to be confined in an asylum ; and he lost both of his accomplished sons. In his last years he was overcome by despondency, and sank into mental and physical decay.

To a new edition of the Essay on Truth in 1776, Beattie added essays on poetry and music, on laughter, and on the utility of classical learning; and in 1783 he published a series of moral and critical Dissertations, of which Cowper said that Beattie was the only author whose philosophical works were diversified and embellished by a poetical imagination that makes even the driest subject and the leanest a feast for epicures.' The

Elements of Moral Science, largely a digest of his college lectures, appeared in 1790-93.

The Minstrel, on which Beattie's fame now rests, is a didactic poem, in the Spenserian stanza, designed to 'trace the progress of a poetical genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a minstrel.' The idea was suggested by Percy's preliminary Dissertation to his Reliques. The character of Edwin, the minstrel-in which Beattie embodied his own early feelings and poetical aspirations-is the most essential part of a rather planless poem, the digressions and disquisitions being more tedious than the descriptive passages. Beattie was by nature a man of quick and tender sensibilities, and was well read in Gray, Collins, and other poets of the period. He had no original poetic power; but here and there he shows a keener love for the romantic and grand in nature than is found in his predecessors (thus ranking amongst the promoters of Romanticism), and some of his really picturesque descriptions, in melodious verse, may yet be read with pleasure. His verses to Alexander Ross, the author of The Fortunate Shepherdess, give him a minor place among Scottish vernacular poets. The two first selections which follow are from the Minstrel; the third from the ballad entitled The Hermit.

Beginning of 'The Minstrel.'

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with Fortune an eternal war;
Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,
Then dropped into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

And yet the languor of inglorious days
Not equally oppressive is to all;

Him, who ne'er listened to the voice of praise,
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.
There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

The rolls of fame I will not now explore;
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,
How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore,
Right glad of heart, though homely in array;
His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;
While from his bending shoulder, decent hung
His harp, the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.
Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
That a poor villager inspires my strain;
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide;
The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;

Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms.
They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain ;
The parasite their influence never warms,
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.
Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the gray linnets carol from the hill,
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,

But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will.
Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made for man below.
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow,
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.

Then grieve not thou, to whom the indulgent Muse
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire:

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse
The imperial banquet and the rich attire.
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?
No; let thy heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire,
To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned;
Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul,
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,
On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,
Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen ;
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,
Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide-
The mansion then no more of joy serene—
Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide,
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven,

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?..

Edwin.

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd swain, a man of low degree,
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;

But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;
A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil: serene amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith: invincible in arms.

The shepherd swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;

The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed ;
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living water from the rock:
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they

went.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy.

Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye.
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy;
Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;
And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.

The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display?
Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped,
Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head,
Or where the maze of some bewildered stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team.
The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring:

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed
To work the woe of any living thing,

By trap or net, by arrow or by sling;

These he detested; those he scorned to wield:
He wished to be the guardian, not the king,
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field,

And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees on high, amidst the encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine;
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join,
And echo swells the chorus to the skies.
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah, no! he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he traced the uplands to survey,
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn:
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
And villager abroad at early toil :

But, lo! the sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lostWhat dreadful pleasure there to stand sublime, Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene, The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control.

The Hermit.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove :
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

'Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral:
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

'Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn-
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"O pity, great Father of Light," then I cried,
"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!"

'And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

The standard edition of Beattie's poems is that by Dyce in the Aldine Series. Sir W. Forbes published a Life of him in 1806, and there is much about him in W. R. Fraser's History of Laurencekirk (1880).