All that makes dying vehemence despair, v7 2 Knowing it must be dragg'd it knows not where.

Th' excess of fear and anguish, which had tied The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried, "O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring, I cannot bear the horror of this thing; Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray, On the remotest mountain of Cathay."

Ι

Solomon wish'd, and the man vanish'd. Straight Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.

"Solomon," with a lofty voice said he, "How came that man here, wasting time with thee? I was to fetch him, ere the close of day, From the remotest mountain of Cathay."

66

Solomon said, bowing him to the ground,
Angel of Death, there will the man be found."

WALLACE AND FAWDON.

THIS ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Wallace, the great Scottish patriot, had been defeated in a sharp encounter with the English. He was forced to retreat with only sixteen followers; the English pursued him with a bloodhound; and his sole chance of escape from that tremendous investigator was either in baffling the scent altogether, (which was impossible, unless fugitives could take to the water, and continue there for some distance,) or in confusing it by the spilling of blood. For the latter purpose, a captive was sometimes sacrificed; in which case the hound stopped upon the body.

The supernatural part of the story of Fawdon is treated by its first relator, Harry the Minstrel, as a mere legend, hd that not a very credible one; but as a mere legend it

is very fine, and quite sufficient for poetical purposes; nor should the old poet's philosophy have thought proper to gainsay it. Nevertheless, as the mysteries of the conscience are more awful things than any merely gratuitous terror, (besides leaving optical phenomena quite as real as the latter may find them,) even the supernatural part of the story becomes probable when we consider the agitations which the noble mind of Wallace may have undergone during such trying physical circumstances, and such extremes of moral responsibility. It seems clear, that however necessary the death of Fawdon may have been to his companions, or to Scotland, his slayer regretted it; I have suggested the kind of reason which he would most likely have had for the regret; and upon the whole, it is my opinion, that Wallace actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in the fact. I do not mean to imply that Fawdon became present, embodied or disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his image. I only say that what the legend reports Wallace to have seen, was actually in the hero's eyes. The remainder of the question I leave to the psychologist.

PART THE FIRST.

WALLACE with his sixteen men
Is on his weary way;
They have hasting been all night,
And hasting been all day;
And now, to lose their only hope,
They hear the bloodhound bay.

The bloodhound's bay comes down the wind,
Right upon the road;

Town and tower are yet to pass,

With not a friend's abode.

Wallace neither turn'd nor spake;

Closer drew the men;

Little had they said that day,

But most went cursing then.

Oh! to meet twice sixteen foes Bos
Coming from English ground, PA
And leave their bodies on the track,
To cheat King Edward's hound.

Oh! to overtake one wretch
That left them in the fight,
And leave him cloven to the ribs,
To mock the bloody spite.

Suddenly dark Fawdon stopp'd,
As they near'd a town;

He stumbled with a desperate oath,
And cast him fiercely down.

He said, "The leech took all my strength,
My body is unblest;

Come dog, come devil, or English rack,
Here must Fawdon rest."

Fawdon was an Irishman

Had join'd them in the war; Four orphan children waited him Down by Eden Scawr.

But Wallace hated Fawdon's ways,
That were both fierce and shy;
And at his words he turn'd, and said,
"That's a traitor's lie.

"No thought is thine of lingering here,
A captive for the hound;
Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh
Hath not a single wound;
The moment we depart, the lane
Will see thee from the ground."

Fawdon would not speak nor stir,
Speak as any might;

Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd,
As though in angry spite.

Wallace drew a little back,

And waved his men apart;

And Fawdon half leap'd up and cried, "Thou wilt not have the heart!"

Wallace with his dreadful sword,
Without further speech,
Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head,
Through its stifled screech:

Through its stifled screech, and through
The arm that fenc'd his brow;
And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead,
And safe is. Wallace now.

Safe is Wallace with his men,
And silent is the hound;
And on their way to Castle Gask
They quit the sullen ground.

PART THE SECOND.

WALLACE lies in Castle Gask,
Safely with his men ;

Not a soul has come, three days,
Within the warder's ken.

Safely with his men lies Wallace,
Yet he fareth ill;

There is fever in his blood;
His mind may not be still.

It was night, and all were housed,
Talking long and late;

Who is this that blows the horn
At the castle-gate?

Who is this that blows a horn

Which none but Wallace hears?
Loud and louder grows the blast
In his frenzied ears.

He sends by twos, he sends by threes,
He sends them all to learn;
He stands upon the stairs, and calls,
But none of them return.

Wallace flings him forth down stairs;
And there the moonlight fell
Across the yard upon a sight,
That makes him seem in hell.

Fawdon's headless trunk he sees,
With an arm in air,
Brandishing his bloody head
By the swinging hair.

Wallace with a stifled screech

Turn'd and fled amain,

Up the stairs, and through the bowers, With a burning brain :

From a window Wallace leap'd
Fifteen feet to ground,

And never stopp'd till fast within
A nunnery's holy bound.

And then he turn'd, in gasping doubt,

To see the fiend retire,

And saw him not at hand, but saw
Castle Gask on fire.

All on fire was Castle Gask;

And on its top, endued