Henry St: Clair, a Tale of the Persecution in Scotland,
and the Martyr of Freedom, are tile productions of a mind of poetical feeling, and also of poetical power. The narrative of the hateful dragonading of the Covenanters, under the influence of the most diabolical of all spirits, that of religious intolerance, is now part and parcel of every Englishman's commonplaces, thanks to the genius of SCOTT. The author of Henry St. Clair has gone over the same ground, with spirit and animation. The story is highly interesting, and its. tendency is of the very best, for it goes to foster a hatred of tyranny and a love of perfect toleration. The Martyr of Freedom is a sort of continuation : its means and end are the same. The description of the proceeding of the martyr to his pile is conceived in a truly poetical spirit.
The Martyr moves, in solemn thought, Where earth, by whiles, is all forgot, Absorbed in eloquent, though dumb Communion with a world to come.
Its boundless sphere, his spirit's gaze From life's impending brink surveys, As, from her cliff, an eaglet's glance The untried ether's blue expanse,
Awaitinn.b not unawed, the hour Which first shall prove her conscious power,
Spread her broad wing, uplift her eye, And own her birthright of the sky.
The Martyr moves, in musing lost, His arms upon his bosom crossed, And shaded back, with decent care, In flowing folds his grizzled hair,
Whilst ever and anon, his feet •
Stain with red drops the flinty street. His brow is fair, his frame is slight, And something bent by sorrow's blight,
Yet is there, in the form thus bowed, A mien so lofty though not proud ;
And, through the languor of that face, So bright a hope, so meek a grace; And, in that clear blue eye, a look, Where heaven so large a share partook, The meanest of the hinds who saw Are lost in pity less than awe. He feels nor heeds the beaded glance Which meets and follows his advance, But leads, within the guarded lane Unto the grave, his funeral train. Slowly the martyr bath passed along But stately and kingly through the throng ; Stately and kingly through them all, He goes to his Master's festival ! The pile is griesly, and doom is near, But his Master's voice is in his ear,
Even now his soul is full of cheer
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