And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnished holly's all too bright,
The may-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree!

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

Let merry England proudly rear

Her blended roses, bought so dear;

Let Albin bind her bonnet blue

With heath and hare-bell dipped in dew;

On favoured Erin's crest be seen

The flower she loves of emerald green

But, lady, twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the cypress tree.

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare

The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;

And, while his crown of laurel leaves

With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.

Yes! twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now;
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have looked and loved my last;
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,→

Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,

And weave it of the cypress tree.

We have already mentioned that the character of Edmund is a new character for Scott. We here insert it, and the more

willingly, as it gives us an opportunity of introducing Matilda to the reader:

The Harper came:-in youth's first prime
Himself; in mode of olden time

His garb was fashioned, to express
The ancient English minstrel's dress,
A seemly gown of Kendal green,
With gorget closed of silver sheen;
His harp in silken scarf was slung,
And by his side an anlace hung.

It seem'd some masquer's quaint array,
For revel or for holiday.

He made obeisance, with a free

Yet studied air of courtesy.

Each look and accent, framed to please,
Seemed to affect a playful ease;
His face was of that doubtful kind,
That wins the eye, but not the mind;
Yet harsh it seemed to deem amiss
Of brow so young and smooth as this.

His was the subtle look and sly,

That, spying all, seems nought to spy;
Round all the group his glances stole,
Unmarked themselves, to mark the whole,

Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look,

Nor could the eye of Redmond brook.
To the suspicious, or the old,

Subtle and dangerous and bold

Had seemed this self-invited guest;
But young our lovers,-and the rest
Wrap'd in their sorrow and their fear
At parting of their mistress dear,
Tear-blinded to the castle hall,
Came as to bear her funeral pall.

While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirret.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;

But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody,

And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,

Claiming respect yet waving state,

That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown;
But, while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,-
To Edmund's thought Matilda seemed
The very object he had dreamed,
When, long ere guilt his soul had known,
In Winston bowers he mused alone,

Taxing his fancy to combine

The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of some fair princess of romance,
Who claims the aid of hero's lance.

"Such was my vision!" Edmund thought
"And have I, then, the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision formed her peer?
Was it my hand, that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes?
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith
Their kindest mercy sudden death:
Have I done this? I! who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,

I would have traced its circle broad,

To kiss the ground on which she trod!

And now--O! would that earth would rive,

And close upon me while alive!

Is there no hope? is all then lost?

Bertram's already on his post!

Even now, beside the hall's arched door,

I saw his shadow cross the floor!

He was to wait my signal strain

A little respite thus we gain."

For the memory of our sentimental readers we quote the following passages; for Scott is exceedingly felicitous in making

the resemblances between the appearances of nature and the feelings of the heart:

The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,

Is like the dewdrop on the rose;

When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh.

When lovers meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A watry ray an instant seen

The darkly closing clouds between.

As Redmond on the turf reclined,

The past and present filled his mind.

We should not be forgiven were we to omit the mention of Mr. Scott's singular power of describing rural scenery. Pure description was always uninteresting, from James Thomson's to Mrs. Radcliffe's; because it is an attempt to accomplish by language what language can never achieve. But Scott abounds in descriptions, and descriptions of the most picturesque beauty, and the highest interest. The secret of this interest in Scott is to be discovered in the reason why we derive exquisite delight from any scene; he animates the picture by some moral reflection-some metaphor drawn from animated life-some view of character-some legend which sanctifies the place:

66 Knitting as with a moral band

The native legend with the land."

The present work does not afford examples of as finished descriptions as his former works, but the following will illustrate our meaning:

A stern and lone, yet lovely road,
As e'er the foot of minstrel trode!
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell,
Deeper and narrower grew the dell;
It seemed some mountain rent and riven,
A channel for the stream had given,
So high the cliffs of limestone gray
Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way,
Yielding, along their rugged base,
A flinty footpath's niggard pace,

Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave,

May hear the headlong torrent rave,
And like a steed in frantic fit,

That flings the froth from curb and bit,

May view her chafe her waves to spray,
O'er every rock that bars her way,
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride,
Thick as the schemes of human pride,
That down life's current drive amain,
As frail, as frothy, and as vain!

The cliffs, that rear the haughty head
High o'er the river's darksome bed,
Were now all naked, wild and gray,
Now waving all with greenwood spray;
Here trees to every crevice clung,
And o'er the dell their branches hung;
And there, all splintered and uneven,
The shivered rocks ascend to heaven:
Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast,
And wreathed its garland round their crest,
Or from the spires bade loosely flare

Its tendrils in the middle air.
As pennons wont to wave of old

O'er the high feast of baron bold,

When revelled loud the feudal rout,

And the arched halls returned their shout,

Such and more wild is Greta's roar,

And such the echoes from her shore,

And so the ivied banners gleam,

Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream.

We stop here with our quotations: other passages, equally striking, might easily have been cited; but these are sufficient to