139. Limbo. The word originally meant the borders of hell, but came to be applied to hell itself, purgatory, and other regions of the spirit world. There was also the Limbus Fatuorum, or Fools' Paradise, to which Milton refers in P. L. iii. 495:

"Into a Limbo large and broad, since call'd

The Paradise of Fools," etc.

142. Touch my charter. Interfere with my freedom, or license. 143. Leyden. "John Leyden, M.D., who had been of great service to Sir Walter Scott in the preparation of the Border Minstrelsy, sailed for India in April, 1803, and died at Java in August, 1811, before com pleting his 36th year "(Lockhart). Cf. Lord of the Isles, iv.:

"Scenes sung by him who sings no more!

His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour:
A distant and a deadly shore

lore."

144. My cause, etc.

Has Leyden's cold remains!"

The MS. has "With all his many-languaged

146. Alcides' wraith. The apparition of Hercules.
148. Polydore. Polydorus. See Virgil, Æn. iii. 19 fol.
150. Locutus Bos. The ox spake (Latin).

159. The Spirit's Blasted Tree. Scott says: “I am permitted to illustrate this passage by inserting' Ceubren yr Ellyll, or the Spirit's Blasted Tree,' a legendary tale, by Mr. George Warrington, who says of it:

"The event on which this tale is founded is preserved by tradition in the family of the Vaughans of Hengwyrt; nor is it entirely lost, even among the common people, who still point out this oak to the passenger. The enmity between the two Welsh chieftains, Howel Sele, and Owen Glyndowr, was extreme, and marked by vile treachery in the one, and ferocious cruelty in the other.1 The story is somewhat changed and softened, as more favorable to the characters of the two chiefs, and as better answering the purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion of pity, and a greater degree of sentiment in the description. Some trace of Howel Sele's mansion was to be seen, some few years ago, and may perhaps be still visible, in the park of Nannau, now belonging to Sir Robert Vaughan, Baronet, in the wild and romantic tracts of Merionethshire. The abbey mentioned passes under two names, Vaner and Cymmer. The former is retained as more generally used.'

THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE.

Ceubren yr Ellyll.

Through Nannau's Chace as Howel passed,
A chief esteemed both brave and kind,
Far distant borne, the stag-hound's cry
Came murmuring on the hollow wind.

1 The history of their feud may be found in Pennant's Tour in Wales.

Starting, he bent an eager ear,

How should the sounds return again?
His hounds lay wearied from the chase,
And all at home his hunter train.

Then sudden anger flashed his eye,

And deep revenge he vowed to take
On that bold man who dared to force
His red deer from the forest brake.

Unhappy chief! would nought avail,
No signs impress thy heart with fear,
Thy lady's dark mysterious dream,

Thy warning from the hoary seer?

Three ravens gave the note of death,

As through mid air they winged their way; Then o'er his head in rapid flight,

They croak, they scent their destined prey.

Ill-omened bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wondrous power to know, While health fills high the throbbing veins, The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage, alone he passed,

Nor sought his ready vassals' aid; But what his fate day long unknown, For many an anxious year delayed.

A peasant marked his angry eye,

He saw him reach the lake's dark bourne,

He saw him near a blasted oak,

But never from that hour return.

Three days passed o'er, no tidings came; -
Where should the chief his steps delay?
With wild alarm the servants ran,

Yet knew not where to point their way.

His vassals ranged the mountain's height,
The covert close, and wide-spread plain;
But all in vain their eager search,

They ne'er must see their lord again.

Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,

Bore to his home the chief once more:
Some saw him walk the mountain's top,
Some saw him on the winding shore.

With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chained the hearer's tongue
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,
Yet fondly o'er the story hung.

Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light,
His aged nurse, and steward gray,
Would lean to catch the storied sounds,
Or mark the flitting spirit stray.

Pale lights on Cader's rocks were seen,
And midnight voices heard to moan;
"T was even said the Blasted Oak,
Convulsive, heaved a hollow

groan

And to this day the peasant still
With cautious fear avoids the ground,
In each wild branch a spectre sees,

And trembles at each rising sound.

Ten annual suns had held their course,
In summer's smile or winter's storm;
The lady shed the widowed tear,

As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er the mind illusions play, -
Of travel fond, perhaps her lord

To distant lands had steered his way.

'T was now November's cheerless hour, Which drenching rains and clouds deface Dreary the mountain track appeared,

And dull and dank the valley's space.

Loud o'er the wier the hoarse flood fell,
And dashed the foamy spray on high;
The west wind bent the forest tops,

And angry frowned the evening sky,
A stranger passed Llanelltid's waste,
His dark-gray steed with sweat besprent,
Which, wearied with the lengthened way,
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent.

"E'en from the day, when, chained by fate,
By wizard's dream, or potent spell,
Lingering from sad Salopia's field,
Reft of his aid the Percy fell.

"E'en from that day misfortune still,
As if for violated faith,

Pursued him with unwearied step,
Vindictive still for Hotspur's death.

"Vanquished at length, the Glyndwr fled Where winds the Wye her devious flood; To find a casual shelter there,

In some lone cot or desert wood.

"Clothed in a shepherd's humble guise,
He gained by toil his scanty bread;
He who had Cambria's sceptre borne,
And her brave sons to glory led!

"To penury extreme and grief

The chieftain fell a lingering prey;
I heard his last few faltering words,
Such as with pain I now convey:
"To Sele's sad widow bear the tale,
Nor let our horrid secret rest;
Give but his corse to sacred earth,
Then may my parting soul be blest.'

"Dim waxed the eye that fiercely shone, And faint the tongue that proudly spoke, And weak that arm, still raised to me,

Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.

"How could I then his mandate bear?
Or how his last behest obey?
A rebel deemed, with him I fled:

With him I shunned the light of day.

"Proscribed by Henry's hostile rage, My country lost, despoiled my land, Desperate, I fled my native soil,

And fought on Syria's distant strand.

"Oh! had thy long-lamented lord
The holy cross and banner viewed,
Died in the sacred cause! who feil
Sad victim of a private feud!

"Led, by the ardor of the chase,

Far distant from his own domain, From where Garthmadan spreads her shades, The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.

"With head aloft, and antlers wide,

A red buck roused then crossed in view; Stung with the sight, and wild with rage, Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.

"With bitter taunt, and keen reproach, He, all impetuous, poured his rage; Reviled the chief as weak in arms,

And bade him loud the battle wage.

"Glyndwr for once restrained his sword,
And, still averse, the fight delays;
But softened words, like oil to fire,

Made anger more intensely blaze.

"They fought; and doubtful long the fray!
The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound! -
Still mournful must my tale proceed,
And its last act all dreadful sound.

"How could we hope for wished retreat,
His eager vassals ranging wide?
His bloodhounds' keen sagacious scent,
O'er many a trackless mountain tried?

"I marked a broad and blasted oak,
Scorched by the lightning's livid glare;
Hollow its stem from branch to root,

And all its shrivelled arms were bare.

"Be this, I cried, his proper grave! -
(The thought in me was deadly sin.)
Aloft we raised the hapless chief,

And dropped his bleeding corpse within."

A shriek from all the damsels burst,
That pierced the vaulted roofs below;
While horror-struck the lady stood,
A living form of sculptured woe.

With stupid stare, and vacant gaze,

Full on his face her eyes were cast,
Absorbed she lost her present grief
And faintly thought of things long past.

Like wild-fire o'er a mossy heath,

The rumor through the hamlet ran;
The peasants crowd at morning dawn,
To hear the tale, -behold the man.

He led them near the Blasted Oak,
Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew:
The peasants work with trembling haste,
And lay the whitened bones to view! -

Back they recoiled!- the right hand still,
Contracted, grasped a rusty sword,

Which erst in many a battle gleamed,

And proudly decked their slaughtered lord.

They bore the corse to Vener's shrine,
With holy rites and prayers addressed;

Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,
And gave the angry spirit rest.

160. The Highlander, etc. "The Daoine shi', or Men of Peace, of the Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scandinavian Duergar than the English Fairies. Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not absolutely malevolent, at least peevish, discontented, and apt to do mischief on slight provocation. The belief of their existence is deeply