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illustrations, they would have no charms of novelty. I have, therefore, selected one passage from Henry VI. which I have never seen quoted, and which, I think, in the united qualities of pathos and sublimity, Shakespeare has never surpassed.

"Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shews;

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shews
That I must yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe;
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle;
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept;
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from Winter's powerful wind.

These eyes that now are dimm'd with Death's black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun

To search the secret treasons of the world.

The wrinkles in my brow, now fill'd with blood,
Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres;

For who liv'd king but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo! now my glory, smear'd in dust and blood,

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Ev'n now forsake me; and, of all my lands,
Is nothing left me but my body's length."

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earl of Warwick, may be more fully seen, it must be remembered that he was the most powerful subject that surrounded the English throne--that he was unrivalled in the annals of chivalry, and from the excess of his power, was, in those times, called the king maker and the king destroyer. He was, as he says, the shade beneath which the lion slept, and where the people sought protection and safety. His sword defended his king, and his arm was a bulwark to the nation. Whether this speech is most sublime or most pathetic is difficult to be determined. It is, however, unquestionably both. All the dignity of Warwick remains and increases at his death; but the death of so great a character is followed by sadness---as the shadows of night come after the descent of the sun.

When we open Ossian we are immediately introduced into fairy regions. In the days of this bard, superstition prevailed. Every dusky hill was believed to be the abode of a spirit, who mingled his shriek with the voice of the blast. It is unaccountable, that men of literature should deny the authenticity of Ossian's poems. There is no evidence wanting to convince all who are willing to believe. Poems are still repeated in the original Erse, by many aged persons in the Highlands, and by some

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persons whom I have seen in this country, who obtained them from their fathers: and that these are the same poems which Mr. M'Pherson has given to the world in an English dress, characters of the highest veracity and literary reputation have positively declared. What further evidence could we require? But this is not all? for even were every external evidence banished---were there none who spoke the Erse, in which the poems were delivered ---had M'Pherson declared them to be his---those who study them could with difficulty believe him; for every internal evidence declares that they could not be written in the present day; so widely different is the state of society which they describe, from that which now exists. But I have digressed. I thought this tribute due to one of the sublimest bards who has appeared in our world---whose genius ranks with Homer's, and Milton's and Shakespeare's, and with Fingal, 66 yields not to mortal man."The extract which I shall take from Ossian, is the episode of Orla. I have chosen it because there is no passage of which the reader can better judge, when separated from the whole.

"Who is that, like a cloud, at the rock of the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course; yet stately is the chief! his bossy shield is on his

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"Or

side; and his spear, like the tree of the desert. Youth of the dark-brown hair art thou of Fingal's foes?" "I am a son of Lochlin," he cries" and strong is mine arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home; but Orla will never return." fights or yields the hero," said Fingal of the noble deeds--" foes do not conquer in my presence: but my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the wave follow me; partake of the feast of my shells; pursue the deer of my desart; and be the friend of Fingal." "No," said the hero, "I assist the feeble; my strength shall remain with the weak in arms. My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior; let the king of Morven yield." "I never yielded Orla, Fingal never yielded to man. Draw thy sword and chuse thy foe. Many are my heroes." "And does the king refuse the combat," said Orla with the dark-brown hair? "Fingal is a match for Orla, and he alone of all his race. But king of Morven, if I shall fall, (as one day the warrior must die,) raise my tomb in the midst, and let it be the greatest on Lena. And send over the darkblue wave, the sword of Orla to the spouse of his love; that she may shew it to her son with tears, to kindle his soul to war.' "Son of the mournful tale," said Fingal "why dost thou awaken my

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tears? one day the warriors must die, and the children see their useless arms in the hall. But Orla thy tomb shall rise, and thy white-bosomed spouse, weep over thy sword." They fought on the heath of Lena, but feeble was the arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended and cleft his shield in twain. It fell, and glittered on the ground, as the moon on the stream of night. "King of Morven," said the hero, "lift thy sword and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from battle my friends have left me here. The mournful tale shall come to my love on the streamy Loda; when she is alone in the wood; and the rustling blast in the leaves." "No," said the king of Morven, "I will never wound thee Orla. On the banks of Loda, let her see thee escaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray-haired father, who perhaps is blind with age, hear the sound of thy voice in the hall. With joy let the hero rise and search for his son with his hands." "But never will he find him, Fingal," said the youth of the streamy Loda, " on Lena's heath I shall die; and foreign bards will talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. And now I give it to the wind." "The dark-blood poured from his side, he fell pale on the heath of Lena. Fingal bends over him as he dies."