The Saxon's Daughter, a Poem in six cantos, by NICHOLAS
MICHELL, carries us back to the time of Richard the First, and to the heartbureings between the Normans and the Saxons. The subject of the tale is the loves of Beaumont, the son of the Earl of Warwick, with Ada, the daughter of the Saxon Oswy. The scene is laid in England and the Holy Land. The story is varied by the introduction of Richard and his Crusaders, and Saladin and his Saracens, with descriptions of the siege of Acre and the battle of Ashdod. The metre selected is the octosyllabic verse; and in the use of it the author displays much of the facility and some of the animation of his prototype Scorr; though we miss his acquaintance with the practices of chivalry, and his original knowledge of the manners and modes of thinking prevalent in the time of Ivanhoe. The Saxon's Daughter, upon the whole, is a pretty, but not a striking poem; and a tale told with distinct- ness, but not with much art. Of the writer's manner we will give a specimen.
'Twas summer noon : in heaven's deep blue No pilgrim cloud refresh'd the view ; The sun pour'd down his scorching beam On drooping flower and glassy stream; The weary woodmen's axe no more Echoed on Avon's poplar'd shore; Down Fern's green hill the shepherd drove His panting flocks to glen and grove; Na sound disturb'd the sultry air, Save the light laugh of truant child, O'er some green meadow bounding wild, Chasing the bright- wing'd insect there; Save the lone cuckoo's farewell lay, Ere to the South he wing'd away; Or, thrilling sweet the vale along, The hamlet maiden's artless song. • 5is Who dam with stealing step, intrude On Ada's shadowy solitude?
Is it the hermit of you wild, Who comes to shrive his erring child ?
Or some fierce bandit frowning nigh,
With blood ,stain'd hand and wanton eye? No! 'tis a gallant Norman knight, In rattling arms not Mcadfill now ; A waving cloak, a doublet light, Display his figure's stately height, A plume adorns his noble brow.
A gem. starr'd baldric 'round him clings, Whence, tipp'd with gold, a bugle swings; He grasps a slender hunting-spear,.
Red with the blood of slaughter'd deer;
llis haughty brow, his eagle eye, Where thoughts like slumbering lightnings lie, His towering form and graceful air,
Become great Warwick's youthful heir.
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