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[This poem is supposed to have been the last, or among the last, of Nicoll's compositions.]

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass,
Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps;
The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps;
But I, who love them all, shall never be
Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea!
The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine!-

Blessed is the brightness of a summer day;
It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,
Although among green fields I cannot stray!
Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave,
Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave!

These words have shaken mighty human souls-
Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound-
E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls
The ivied remnants of old ruins round.
Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?
Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade

away?

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Longings for beings nobler in each part

Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss?

The Exile's Song.
Oh! why left I my hame ?
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn:
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie;
But the sun of freedom shines

In my ain countrie!
There's a hope for every wo,
And a balm for every pain,
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea;
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!

In the Days o' Langsyne.

In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young,

Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, in thee An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung;

The bud is budding now for immortality!

Death comes to take me where I long to be;

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; Death comes to lead me from mortality,

To lands which know not one unhappy hour;

I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here
I'm led by Death away-why should I start and fear?
If I have loved the forest and the field,

Can I not love them deeper, better there?
If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield
Something of good and beauty-something fair-
Freed from the grossness of mortality,
May I not love them all, and better all enjoy?
A change from wo to joy-from earth to heaven,
Death gives me this-it leads me calmly where
The souls that long ago from mine were riven

May meet again! Death answers many a prayer. Bright day, shine on! be glad days brighter far Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals

are!

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

Though no Scottish poetry besides that of Burns attracts attention out of its native country, there is not wanting a band of able and warm-hearted men who continue to cultivate it for their own amusement and that of their countrymen. Amongst these may be mentioned MESSRS RODGER, BALLANTYNE, VEDDER, and GRAY: a high place in the class is due to MR ROBERT GILFILLAN, a native of Dunfermline, whose Poems and Songs have passed through three editions. The songs of Mr Gilfillan are marked by gentle and kindly feelings, and a smooth flow of versification, which makes them eminently suitable for being expressed in music.

When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain

yill,

An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on thehill;
O! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill!
In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free,
Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea!
To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind,
An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find
The banner of Scotland float high in the wind!
In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang
By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang;
Our lads busked braw, and our lasses looked fine,
An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine;
O! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne?
In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale,
Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;
An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,
As it trotted alang through the valley or plain;
Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again !
In the days o' langsyne there were feasting and glee,
Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee; [tyne,
And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to
It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas mine:
O! the days o' langsyne-O! the days o' langsyne.

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Wi' the rest'o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.
Though now he said naething but "Fare ye weel, Lucy!"
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He couldna say mair but just, "Fare ye weel, Lucy!"
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit braw,
And gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
And fragrance winged alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,
And saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin' ee
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, and kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted ee wad hae, quoth I,
The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer.
But gi'e to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba',
And O! sae blithe through life I'll steer,
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,
And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That owre the muir meandering rows;
Or, tint amang the scroggy knowes,
My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw,
And sing the streams, the straths, and howes,
The hills and dales o' Gallowa'.
And when auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs and joyous swains,
Her flowery wilds and wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains;
Whare friendship dwells and freedom reigns,
Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw,
O! dig my grave, and hide my banes
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Lucy's Flittin'.

[By William Laidlaw.]

[William Laidlaw is son of the Ettrick Shepherd's master at Blackhouse. All who have read Lockhart's Life of Scott, know how closely Mr Laidlaw was connected with the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He was his companion in some of his early wanderings, his friend and land-steward in advanced years, his amanuensis in the composition of some of his novels, and he was one of the few who watched over his last sad and painful moments. Lucy's Flittin' is deservedly popular for its unaffected tenderness and simplicity. In printing the song, Hogg added the last four lines to complete the story.']

'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neibours sae dear: For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see; 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin',
'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',
And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.
'Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie;'-she turned and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!

The Brownie of Blednoch.

[By William Nicholson.]

There cam a strange wight to our town-en',
An' the fient a body did him ken;
He tirled na lang, but he glided ben
Wi' a dreary, dreary hum.

His face did glow like the glow o' the west,
When the drumly cloud has it half o'ercast;
Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest.

O, sirs! 'twas Aiken-drum.

I trow the bauldest stood aback,
Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack,
As the shapeless phantom mum'ling spak-

Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?

O! had ye seen the bairns' fright,

As they stared at this wild and unyirthly wight; As they skulkit in 'tween the dark and the light,

And graned out, Aiken-drum!

The black dog growling cowered his tail,
The lassie swarfed, loot fa' the pail;
Rob's lingle brak as he men't the flail,

At the sight o' Aiken-drum.

His matted head on his breast did rest,
A lang blue beard wan'ered down like a vest;
But the glare o' his ee hath nae bard exprest,
Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum.

Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen
But a philabeg o' the rashes green,
An' his knotted knees played aye knoit between-
What a sight was Aiken-drum!

On his wauchie arms three claws did meet,
As they trailed on the grun' by his taeless feet;
E'en the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat,

To look at Aiken-drum.

But he drew a score, himsel' did sain,
The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane;
While the young ane closer clasped her wean,
And turned frae Aiken-drum.

But the canny auld wife cam till her breath,
And she deemed the Bible might ward aff scaith,
Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith-

But it feared na Aiken-drum..

'His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman;
'What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by lan'?
I conjure ye-speak-by the beuk in my han'!'
What a grane ga'e Aiken-drum!

'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky,
I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by;
But I'se dwall now wi' you if ye like to try-
Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ?

I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune,
I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moon,
An' ba the bairns wi an unkenned tune,
If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum.

1

I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade,
I'll kirn the kirn, an' I'll turn the bread;
An' the wildest filly that ever ran rede,

I'se tame't,' quoth Aiken-drum.

To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell,
To gather the dew frae the heather bell,
An' to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
Might gi'e pleasure to Aiken-drum.

I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark;
I use nae beddin', shoon, nor sark;
But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' dark

Is the wage o' Aiken-drum.'

Quoth the wylie auld wife, 'The thing speaks weel;
Our workers are scant-we hae routh o' meal;
Gif he'll do as he says-be he man, be he deil-
Wow! we'll try this Aiken-drum.'

But the wenches skirled, 'He's no be here!
His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear;
An' the feint a ane will the house come near,
If they think but o' Aiken-drum.'

Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit;
Is'tna hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?"
Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit-
'Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum.'

Roun' a' that side what wark was dune
By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon;
A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune,

Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum.

On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree,
For mony a day a toiled wight was he;
While the bairns played harmless roun' his knee,

Sae social was Aiken-drum.

But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks,
Fond o' a' things feat for the five first weeks,
Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
By the brose o' Aiken-drum.

Let the learned decide when they convene,
What spell was him an' the breeks between;
For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen,
An' sair-missed was Aiken-drum.

He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve,
Crying, 'Lang, lang now may I greet an' grieve;
For, alas! I hae gotten baith fee an' leave-

O! luckless Aiken-drum!'

Awa, ye wrangling sceptic tribe,
Wi' your pros an' your cons wad ye decide
'Gain the sponsible voice o' a hale country side,
On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum?

Though the 'Brownie o' Blednoch' lang be gane,
The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane;
An' mony a wife an' mony a wean

Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum.

E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer
At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear,
At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear,
An' looked roun' for Aiken-drum.

Song.

[By Joseph Train.]

[Mr Train will be memorable in our literary history for the assistance he rendered to Sir Walter Scott in the contribution of some of the stories on which the Waverley novels were founded. He entered life as a private soldier, and rose by merit to be a supervisor of excise, from which situation he has now retired on a superannuation allowance.]

Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang,
I left my goats to wander wide;
And e'en as fast as I could bang,

I bickered down the mountain side.
My hazel rung and haslock plaid
Awa' I flang wi' cauld disdain,
Resolved I would nae langer bide
To do the auld thing o'er again.
Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise
Aboon the wild woods white wi' snaw,
I trow the laddies ye may prize,
Wha fight your battles far awa'.
Wi' them to stan', wi' them to fa',
Courageously I crossed the main;
To see, for Caledonia,

The auld thing weel done o'er again.

Right far a-fiel' I freely fought,
'Gainst mony an outlandish loon;
An' wi' my good claymore I've brought
Mony a beardy birkie down:
While I had pith to wield it roun',
In battle I ne'er met wi' ane
Could danton me, for Britain's crown,
To do the same thing o'er again.
Although I'm marching life's last stage,
Wi' sorrow crowded roun' my brow;
An' though the knapsack o' auld age
Hangs heavy on my shoulders now-
Yet recollection, ever new,
Discharges a' my toil and pain,
When fancy figures in my view
The pleasant auld thing o'er again.

The Cameronian's Dream.
[By James Hislop.]

[James Hislop was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar, near the source of the Nith, in July 1798. He was employed as a shepherd-boy in the vicinity of Airsmoss, where, at the gravestone of a party of slain covenanters, he composed the following striking poera. He afterwards became a teacher, and his poetical effusions having attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey, and other eminent literary characters, he was, through their inffuence, appointed schoolmaster, first on board the Doris, and subsequently the Tweed man-of-war. He died on the 4th Decem ber 1827 from fever caught by sleeping one night in the open air upon the island of St Jago. His compositions display an elegant rather than a vigorous imagination, much chasteness of thought, and a pure but ardent love of nature.]

In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

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An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright,
When the moon was set, an' the stars gied nae light, On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
At the roaring linn, in the howe o' the night,

'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;

Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain

Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum.

flowers blue.

And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and gladness,

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,

For they knew that their blood would bedew it to

morrow.

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Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,

But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,

They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,

The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was stream

ing,

The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,

Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are

riding;

Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

DRAMATISTS.

Dramatic literature no longer occupies the prominent place it held in former periods of our history. Various causes have been assigned for this declineas, the great size of the theatres, the monopoly of the two large London houses, the love of spectacle or scenic display which has usurped the place of the legitimate drama, and the late dinner hours now prevalent among the higher and even the middle

classes. The increased competition in business has also made our 'nation of shopkeepers' a busier and harder-working race than their forefathers; and the diffusion of cheap literature may have further tended to thin the theatres, as furnishing intellectual entertainment for the masses at home at a cheaper rate than dramatic performances. The London managers appear to have had considerable influence in this matter. They lavish enormous sums on scenic decoration and particular actors, and aim rather at filling their houses by some ephemeral and dazzling display, than by the liberal encouragement of native talent and genius. To improve, or rather re-establish the acted drama, a periodical writer suggests that there should be a classification of theatres in the metropolis, as in Paris, where each theatre has its distinct species of the drama, and performs it well. We believe,' he says, 'that the evil is mainly occasioned by the vain endeavour of managers to succeed by commixing every species of entertainment-huddling together tragedy, comedy, farce, melo-drama, and spectacleand striving, by alternate exhibitions, to draw all

the dramatic public to their respective houses. Im

perfect-very imperfect companies for each species are engaged; and as, in consequence of the general imperfection, they are forced to rely on individual excellence, individual performers become of inordinate importance,. and the most exorbitant salaries are given to procure them. These individuals are thus placed in a false position, and indulge themselves in all sorts of mannerisms and absurdities. The

public is not unreasonably dissatisfied with imperfect companies and bad performances; the managers wonder at their ruin; and critics become elegiacal over the mournful decline of the drama! Not in this way can a theatre flourish; since, if one species of performance proves attractive, the others are at a discount, and their companies become useless burdens; if none of them prove attractive, then the loss ends in ruin.'* Too many instances of this have occurred within the last twenty years. Whenever a play of real excellence has been brought forward, the public has shown no insensibility to its merits; but so many circumstances are requisite to its successful representation-so expensive are the companies, and so capricious the favourite actors-that men of talent are averse to hazard a competition. The true dramatic talent is also a rare gift. Some of the most eminent poets have failed in attempting to portray actual life and passion in interesting situations on the stage; and as Fielding and Smollett proved unsuccessful in comedy (though the former wrote a number of pieces), so Byron and Scott were found wanting in the qualities requisite for the tragic drama. It is evident,' says Campbell, that Melpomene demands on the stage something, and a good deal more, than even poetical talent, rare as that is. She requires a potent and peculiar faculty for the invention of incident adapted to theatric effect; a faculty which may often exist in those who have been bred to the stage, but which, generally speaking, has seldom been shown by any poets who were not professional players. There are exceptions to the remark, but there are not many. If Shakspeare had not been a player, he would not have been the dramatist that he is.' Dryden, Addison, and Congreve, are conspicuous exceptions to this rule; also Goldsmith in comedy, and, in our own day, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer in the romantic drama. The Colmans, Sheridan, Morton, and Reynolds, never,. we believe, wore the sock or buskin; but they were either managers, or closely connected with the theatre.

* Edinburgh Review for 1843.

In the first year of this period, ROBERT JEPHSON associates! partners of my toil, my feelings, and

(1736-1803) produced his tragedy of The Count of Narbonne, copied from Walpole's Castle of Otranto, and it was highly attractive on the stage. In 1785 Jephson brought out another tragedy, The Duke of Braganza, which was equally successful. He wrote three other tragedies, some farces, and operas; but the whole are now utterly neglected. Jephson was no great dramatic writer; but a poetical critic has recorded to his honour, that, 'at a time when the native genius of tragedy seemed to be extinct, he came boldly forward as a tragic poet, and certainly with a spark of talent; for if he has not the full flame of genius, he has at least its scintillating light.' The dramatist was an Irishman by birth, a captain in the army, and afterwards a member of the Irish House of Commons.

The stage was aroused from a state of insipidity or degeneracy by the introduction of plays from the German, which, amidst much false and exaggerated sentiment, appealed to the stronger sympathies of our nature, and drew crowded audiences to the theatres. One of the first of these was The Stranger, said to be translated by Benjamin Thompson; but the greater part of it, as it was acted, was the production of Sheridan. It is a drama of domestic life, not very moral or beneficial in its tendencies (for it is calculated to palliate our detestation of adultery), yet abounding in scenes of tenderness and surprise, well adapted to produce effect on the stage. The principal characters were acted by Kemble and Mrs Siddons, and when it was brought out in the season of 1797-8, it was received with immense applause. In 1799 Sheridan adapted another of Kotzebue's plays, Pizarro, which experienced still greater success. In the former drama the German author had violated the proprieties of our moral code, by making an injured husband take back his guilty though penitent wife; and in Pizarro he has invested a fallen female with tenderness, compassion, and heroism. The obtrusion of such a character as a prominent figure in the scene was at least indelicate; but, in the hands of Mrs Siddons, the taint was scarcely perceived, and Sheridan had softened down the most objectionable parts. The play was produced with all the aids of splendid scenery, music, and fine acting, and these, together with its displays of generous and heroic feeling on the part of Rolla, and of parental affection in Alonzo and Cora, were calculated to lead captive a general audience, 'Its subject was also new, and peculiarly fortunate. It brought the adventures of the most romantic kingdom of Christendom (Spain) into picturesque combination with the simplicity and superstitions of the transatlantic world; and gave the imagination a new and fresh empire of paganism, with its temples, and rites, and altars, without the stale associations of pedantry.' Some of the sentiments and descriptions in Pizarro are said to have originally formed part of Sheridan's famous speech on the impeachment of Warren Hastings! They are often inflated and bombastic, and full of rhetorical glitter. Thus Rollo soliloquises in Alonzo's dungeon: -O holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of our earth a creature, bearing form and life, human or savage, native of the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down; and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.'

Or the speech of Rolla to the Peruvian army

my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigour to the
virtuous energies which inspire your hearts? No!
you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the
crafty plea by which these bold invaders would de-
lude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as
mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can
animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange
frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and ex-
tended rule. We, for our country, our altars, and
our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they
fear, and a power which they hate. We serve a
monarch whom we love a God whom we adore!
Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their
progress; where'er they pause in amity, affliction
mourns their friendship. They boast they come
but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and
free us from the yoke of error. Yes, they will give
enlightened freedom to our minds, who are them-
selves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride.
They offer us their protection; yes, such protection
as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring
them! They call on us to barter all of good we
have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance
of something better which they promise. Be our
plain answer this: the throne we honour is the
people's choice; the laws we reverence are our brave
fathers' legacy; the faith we follow teaches us to
live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die
with hopes of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your
invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change,
and least of all such change as they would bring us.'
Animated apostrophes like these, rolled from
the lips of Kemble, and applied, in those days
of war, to British valour and patriotism arrayed
against France, could hardly fail of an enthusiastic
reception. A third drama by Kotzebue was some
years afterwards adapted for the English stage by
Mrs Inchbald, and performed under the title of
Lovers' Vows. 'The grand moral of the play is
to set forth the miserable consequences which arise
from the neglect, and to enforce the watchful care
of illegitimate offspring; and surely as the pulpit
has not had eloquence to eradicate the crime of
seduction, the stage may be allowed a humble en-
deavour to prevent its most fatal effects.' Lovers'
Vows also became a popular acting play, for stage
effect was carefully studied, and the scenes and
situations skilfully arranged. While filling the
theatres, Kotzebue's plays were generally condemned
by the critics. They cannot be said to have pro-
duced any permanent bad effect on our national
morals, but they presented many false and pernicious
pictures to the mind. There is an affectation,' a3
Scott remarks, 'of attributing noble and virtuous
sentiments to the persons least qualified by habit or
education to entertain them; and of describing the
higher and better educated classes as uniformly de-
ficient in those feelings of liberality, generosity, and
honour, which may be considered as proper to their
situation in life. This contrast may be true in par-
ticular instances, and being used sparingly, might
afford a good moral lesson; but in spite of truth and
probability, it has been assumed, upon all occasions,
by those authors as the groundwork of a sort of in-
tellectual Jacobinism.' Scott himself, it will be re-
collected, was fascinated by the German drama, and
translated a play of Goethe. The excesses of Kotze-
bue were happily ridiculed by Canning and Ellis in
their amusing satire, The Rovers. At length, after
a run of unexampled success, these plays ceased
to attract attention, though one or two are still
occasionally performed. With all their absurdities,
we cannot but believe that they exercised an in-

at the consecration of the banners:- My brave |spiring influence on the rising genius of that age.

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