along the Eske, which is there joined by its sister stream of the same name. Note 7. Stanza xviii. And classic Hawthornden. Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond. A house of more modern date is enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by winding caves, which, in former times, formed a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who journeyed from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower, Where Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade. Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea, at Musselburgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic and beautiful scenery. Note 1. Stanza xvii. From that fair dome, where suit is paid By blast of bugle free. The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery. THE FIRE-KING. The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon him. Eastern Tale. THIS ballad was written at the request of Mr LEWIS, to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder. It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, however, partly historical; for it is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, a Knight Templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin, under the walls of Jerusalem. And palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's wave, O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and brave? The priests they erase it with care and with pain, When the Crescent went back, and the Red-cross rush'd But, as he descended, a whisper there fell,— High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, Your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar on high; When he thought of the maiden of fair Lebanon. But lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. << The green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt falls, O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed; Small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie, Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trod, abroad; They made each steel portal to rattle and ring, Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh, smoke, << O Christian, brave Christian, my love wouldst thou be, In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmer'd through << And, next, in the cavern, where burns evermore << And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel and hand, He has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled sword, And in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground, Amazed was the princess, the Soldan amazed, Again in the cavern, deep deep under ground, Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed was the king, And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke :- « With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no more, Till thou bend to the Cross; and the Virgin adore.>> The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon; and, see! From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave, The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied, Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield, So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er, Hark! for now a solemn knell Four times on the still night broke: Four times at its deaden'd swell, Echoes from the ruins spoke. As the lengthen'd clangors die, Slowly opes the iron door; Straight a banquet met his eye, But a funeral's form it wore! Coffins for the seats extend; All with black the board was spread; Girt by parent, brother, friend, Long since number'd with the dead! Alice in her grave-clothes bound, << Welcome, traitor, to the grave! THE WILD HUNTSMEN. THIS is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg. was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, « Gluck zu, Falkenburg!» (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!)— << Dost thou wish me good sport?» answered a hoarse voice; «<thou shalt share the game; and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded wih dogs a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in «< Sully's Memoirs,» who says he was called Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert. The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Rossshire. Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross, Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd, Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168. A posthumous miracle of Father Lesly, a Scottish capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted reliques had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian. THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, The cager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the briar, the brake: While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallow'd day Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd: But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Halloo, halloo! and hark again! When, spurring from opposing sides, Two Stranger Horsemen join the train. Who was each Stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell. |