feeling peculiar to the sex, the innocent love of a young girl for her innocent pet.

I must find room for a few stanzas of Marvell's Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's return from Ireland. Fine as the praise of Cromwell is, it yields in grandeur and beauty to the tribute paid by the Roundhead poet to the demeanour of the King upon the scaffold, by far the noblest of the many panegyrics upon the martyred King.

And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,
(As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb
To win the greatest work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould!

Though justice against fate complain
And plead the ancient rights in vain,
But those do hold or break

As men are strong or weak.

Nature that hateth emptiness

Allows of penetration less.

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampden shows what part
He had of wiser art:

Where, twining civil fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope,

That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands,
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye

The axe's edge did try :

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.

And he who wrote this was Cromwell's Latin Secretary !— and Cromwell's other Latin Secretary was Milton! There have been many praises of the Lord Protector written latterly, but these two facts seem to me worth them all.

XLI.

SCOTTISH POETS.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

Two of the ballads of William Motherwell are amongst the most beautiful in the Scottish dialect, so full of lyrical beauty; and yet the one that is the most touching is scarcely known, except to a few lovers of poetry. "Jeanie Morrison," indeed, has an extensive popularity in Scotland; and yet even that charming song is comparatively little known in this country.

Burns is the only poet with whom, for tenderness and pathos, Motherwell can be compared. The elder bard has written much more largely, is more various, more fiery, more abundant; but I doubt if there be in the whole of his collection anything so exquisitely finished, so free from a line too many, or a word out of place, as the two great ballads of Motherwell. And let young writers observe that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during many years, did "Jeanie Morrison" attain her perfection; and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling that would find vent! In "My heid is like to rend, Willie,” the

appearance of spontaneity is still more striking, as the passion is more intense-intense, indeed, almost to painfulness.

Like Burns, Motherwell died before he attained his fortieth year; and like him, too, although a partisan of far different opinions, he was ardently engaged in political discussion as the editor of a Tory newspaper, in Glasgow. He was even the secretary of an institution that sounds strangely in English ears—a Scotch Orange Lodge. I notice these facts, only to observe that they are already almost forgotten. The elements of bitterness and hatred, in which the politician revels, live through their little day, then pass away for ever; while the deep and pure feelings of a true poet are imperishable.

As with "Percy's Reliques," my own copy of Motherwell has to me an interest besides that of its high literary merits. If I would explain the source of that interest, I must even tell the story, luckily a very short one.

Three years ago, a friend, to whom I owe a thousand obligations of all sorts and kinds, posted London over to procure this volume. Now, my friend is a man of book-shops and book-stalls, but only one copy could he meet with, and that was neither Scotch nor English, but American, from the great Boston publishers, Tickṇor and Company. The book became immediately a favourite, and was laid on the table—a phrase which in my little drawing-room has a very different sense from that which it bears in the House of Commons.

One fine summer afternoon, shortly after I had made this acquisition, two young Americans made their appearance, with letters of introduction from some honoured friends. There was no mention of profession or calling, but I soon found that they were not only men of intelligence and education, but of literary taste and knowledge; one especially had the look, the air, the conversation of a poet. We talked on many subjects, and got at last to the delicate question of American reprints of English authors; on which, much to their delight and a little to their surprise, there was no disagreement; I for my poor part pleading guilty to the taking pleasure in such a diffusion of my humble works. "Besides," continued I, “ you send us better things-things otherwise unattainable. I could only procure the fine poems of Motherwell in this Boston edition." My two visitors smiled at each "This is a most singular coincidence," cried the one

other.

whom I knew by instinct to be a poet. "I am a younger partner in this Boston house, and at my pressing instance this book was reprinted. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see it here!"

Mr. Field's visit was necessarily brief; but that short interview has laid the foundation of a friendship which will, I think, last as long as my frail life, and of which the benefit is all on my side. He sends me charming letters, verses which are fast ripening into true poetry, excellent books; and this autumn he brought back himself, and came to pay me a second visit; and he must come again, for of all the kindnesses with which he loads me, I like his company best.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break,-
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dying for your sake!
O lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,-
O say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will,-
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,-
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,--
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strong is its despair!

Oh! dinua mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame,-

But oh! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' o'er your cheek
And hailin' o'er your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin?

I'm weary of this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,

I canna live as I hae lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,-

And kiss ance mair the white white cheek
Ye said was red lang syne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart,—

Oh! haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt.

Anither, and anither yet,

How fast my heart-strings break !—
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirkyard
Step lichtly for my sake!

The laverock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid,

Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we're sittin' on
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But oh! remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be,

And oh! think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And oh! think on the cauld, cauld mools,
That file my yellow hair, -

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

The following Cavalier Song was first given by Motherwell as an original manuscript by Lovelace, accidently discovered on a fly-leaf of his poems. The story found believers. They ought to have seen that the imitation, though very skilful, was too close. Lovelace was the last man in the world to have repeated his own turns of phrase.