THE MAID OF ELTAR

Is a narrative poem, of much simplicity both as to matter and style. The subject and the characters are such as the poets of Scotland have made us familiar with,—stout English Border knights, stalwart Scotch peasants, and youthful claitelaines of be- witching beauty, combined with high spirit and wayward passion. But though the characters are not new, though the incidents are

those of every other ballad, and the manner and language of the poem remind us strongly of the ruder ages of English and Scottish verse,—which is by no means a drawback,—the story is told with spirit: interest is sustained, and the hopes and fears of the reader glow or fade at the command of the minstrel.

The Maid of Elvar is the sole possessor of her family domains,

and is acknowledged mistress of her castle of Elvar, which frowns over the Solway Frith. Her father, Lord Lindsey, driven, into madness by the loss of his wife by an inundation of the waters, has deserted his daughter and his home, and has ceased to exist or is become a wanderer, no one knows whither. In his absence, English marauders make an incursion into the country, commanded by Sir Ralph Latoun, with a view of winning a lordship they are discomfited by the peasants, headed by Eustace Grmme. The chief has had time, however, to see the beauty of Elvar, and determines upon wedding her, without waiting for her consent. His persecution ends in her taking refuge, in. the disguise of a humble maiden, at the farm of Eustace's parents ; where an attach- ment springs up between the brave youth and the beautiful girl. Before, however, it ends in a union to which she is nothing loth, some agents of Sir Ralph Latoun, the unscrupulous wooer, suc- ceed in carrying her off, across the Solway, to his castle in Allon.. dale. The robbers are pursued by Eustace and his friends ; who in their turn prevail, partly by the assistance of a wayworn palmer ; who turns out to be the wandering Lord of Elvar, returned from the Holy Land. His objections to his daughter's marrying a pea- sant, are removed by an event which happens oftener in fiction than in reality, but is very useful in the settlement of a story : Eustace's father, the fine old farmer, is, it seems, neither more nor less than Lord Herries, a courtier disgraced and confiscated, and an ancient rival and antagonist of Lesley himself. This discovery, of course, removes all obstacles ; and the youthful pair do that peacefully which it appears they were determined on in spite of all opposition.

The merit of this poem is chiefly of the pastoral kind. During Sybil Lesley's retreat, she enters, in the capacity of a bondmaid, into all the pleasures and occupations of the Vale of Dalgonar. It is in the description of the social joys of humble and pastoral life that ALLAN CUNNINGHA.M'S genius loves to expand. There is a heartiness and animation in his verse, when these are the themes, that display the genuine enthusiasm of the poet. It is this glow of the heart, occupied by such scenes and associations as he dwells on with delight, combined with a peenliarly gentle and elegant display of the fancy, that make the author what he is. In the course of the narrative,—which is in detail, and much

after the fashion of the ballad-chroniele,—we have detected many images of great felicity, and some scenes of more than ordinary animation and vividness. How few passages, for instance, even in our best poets, do we meet with of a more pleasing and fanciful beauty than this stanza on true and early love !-

True gentle love is like the summer dew, Which falls around when all is still and hush; And falls unseen until its bright drops strew With odours, herb and flower, and bank and bush.*

[.• " Bush" must bipronounced Seottial.)

0 love, when womanhood h in the flush, And man's a young and an unspotted thing

His first breathed word and her half conscious blush, Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring—

The first hour of true love is worth our worshipping.

Sybil, on her arrival at the place of abode of Eustace, her chi- -valrous young defender, examines the signs of his presence before she retires to rest : the enumeration of the furniture she observes, -with her ultimate most pure but most comfortable nestling into the snowy sheets, is described with a simplicity and an ease that carry us back to the days when men who had a higher thought than usual deemed it profane unless they encased it in glorious verse. Such were the days of DANIEL and of BROWNE. Of these two authors, more especially the Pastorals of the latter, this Maid of Elver has very frequently reminded us.

So spoke she, and while speaking left the maid, Who, like a lily in the winds of spring, This way, now that, her beauteous head she swayed, And slow perused and ponder'd o'er each thing. There hung a helm plumed with a heron's wing ; Above a pastoral harp of magic tone, Fingers had lately waked to words each string ; There hung the braided corn ; and there, alone, A short and sheathed sword wreathed round with holly shone.

There, too, a bow hung with its sinew slack, And arrows nine, plumed from the goose-wing gray, A spoil won perilous from an archer's back Of Lancashire, on Bannock's bloody day.

And there lay music ; many a lyric lay, Yet sung by cottage dames and maids of rank. She looked, she read, sighed, stript her green array, And like a rose amid a lily-bank, Pressed down the snowy sheets, and deep in slumber sank.

The scene of Sybil's pastoral adventures is the Vale of Da]go- nar, a favourite country which our author has done his best to adorn. It is thus surveyed by the poetic vision—

Hall looked o'er hall, and cot o'er cot arose ; Hill towered o'er hill, green brae sr: led brae ; Wood waved o'er wood, and wh , winter snows On knolls around the shepherd's hir-ids The village smoke curled in long wreaths away, The scent of herbs and Bowers filled all the breeze ; The black cocks crowed upon the mountains gray, The flocks came lowing forth to lawns and leas, And tongues of busy bairns hummed thick as swarming bees.

A hedge of hawthorn, mixed with holly, swept Around each garden, screening every cot ; Among them all a bleaching rivulet crept, Where webs lay white as lily without spot. The parish kirk, through reverend elms remofe, Stood 'midst its grave-stones, row succeeding row ; O'er all the distant city's steeple shot ; Bright in the sun, the Solway slept below, Where sailors charmed the wind, yet still their ships swam slow.

But the dance ! the dance is the subject which our mercurial friend treats with lightly-going pen and greatly-bounding heart. The scene of Sybil's rustic dance, her splendid beauty, contrasted with homely charms, and the nature speaking out in the young men, but more especially in the fiddler—the man of experience, of art, and of taste—are delightful. There are touches of character in the Crouder," both in the stanzas we are about to quote and .elsewhere, that are worthy of BURNS himself.

So thinks Hugh Wilson as be joyful stands, And shouts, to see Miles Grime approaching near.

Hark to the salutation of their hands.

He whisper's Eustace, and in Sybil's ear Pours pleasure. See each window's shining clear. The hinds already have in thought begun To dance, and each one eyes a maiden dear,

And shakes his foot preparing for the fun—

When in walks reverend Miles, with Sybil and his son.

The fiddler smiled when he young Eustace saw, And laid his left cheek to the thrilling thairm, Then drew his best bow-hand; in joy and awe Men hearkened, and seemed touched by magic charm. But when full inspiration moved his arm, Maids' feet found wings, men's minds began to soar Above the world, with all its toil and harm: An hundred feet at once smote on the floor, And cracked an hundred thumbs, and matrons smiled demure.

He paused : a brimming cup young Eustace brings ; .. The Crouder takes it—drains it to a drop_ A new soul now seems sounding in the strings ; Each heart leaps light as starts the music up.; 'The rooftree trembles with its grassy cope; From hole and crevice mice in wonder peep; The hoary bandsmen nod each bonnet top, Dance with their knees and regular measure keep ; Adown their ancient cheeks the drops of gladness dreep.

Now Eustace leads the fair young Sybil out— Her feet beat witchcraft as she heads the dance ; Lads, like a garland, hem her round about, While love rains on them from her dark eye-glance : The maidens near her, tittering, take their stance, And on her swan-white neck and snowy arms, Her small and nimble feet, they look askance; The hoary fiddler, as he listens, warms, And draws a lustier bow, and gases on her charms. But when the music's full infection stole Throughout her frame, and kindled up her veins, She shook her curls, and through her eyes her soul Sent such a shower of rapture, all the swains Stood gaping, as the parched flower when it rains. She sailed along, and, like a sorceress, flung Her own sweet spirit o'er the Crouder's strains : Her feet had language, such as bath been sung, That spoke to every heart as plain as with a tongue.

" Now by my fiddle and-nryitononred bow,

Which threescore winters have amused this lan4 No foot before ere answered music so,

Her eye-glance, too, nigh marred my good bow-liand:".

The Crouder again—he is our favourite: he smelk,the-supper, and the voice of catgut waxes faint.

The savour of the supper seemed to find Its way among the dancers; lighter smote Their feet upon the floor, and in the wind The fiddler felt the flagrance coming hot, His good bow-hand drew out a feeble note : A voice cried loud, " Cease mirth, now carle and kimmer, Music, I say, keeps naething in her pot ; No living soul has ever seen it simmer ; Come, supper loads the board, ale foams aboon the timmer."

The Crouder put his fiddle in its case, As monk would put a relic : then he slung It o'er his shoulder, and'with joyous face Went speaking lightly as he went along- " Long o'er the thairms my right hand have I flung, But Sybil, lass, to-night that foot of thine Bewitched may bow with gallant horse-hair strung, And filled the tight strings with a voice divine." Loud Grizel Grierson laughed, "Mind ye the eighty-nine."

The most spirit-stirring scene of all, is the forced attempt at marriage and the rescue. We have sufficiently explained the story to render it understood in a detached form. It is a muscular piece of work, and seems to be written by a man of a big heart and of thewes and sinews notto be despised. Though the rhythm is very different, the situation of the parties, and the energy with which the contest is kept up, remind us of the bright days of the Last Minstrel.

The Priest alighted at the castle gate, And said, as up the vaulted way be passed, "This night has robed the earth in funeral state ; Sec there, the darkness, ominous and vast;

Stands round they castle, distant a stone's cast—

Is this the bride thou bast so boldly won?"

Mown her cheeks the bright tears trickled fast; He took Sir Ralph aside—" Now, my fair son, Before the church makes thee and that young creature one, "I must ask of thee, bast thou had consent Of this sweet dame? she is of Northern birth."

Replied Sir Ralph—" Now, by both Tyne and Trent, Sir Monk, thou art a man inclined to mirth ; Dust know the wild Scot otberside the firth?

Those who go there to woo from Southron land Must needs their bodies in steel harness girth : Saint George! they else would bless them with a brand! How I that lady woo, Sir Priest, now understand.

"I asked her broad lands, did they wish to wed

With mine fir spreading toward the Roman way ? They answered—Priest, now hearken what they said—

Aye, willing, but there was a mulct to pay To Mother Saint-Bees, o'er the deep Solway."

"Nine, by the holy Peter;" said the Priest, "The wooing was done deftly ; no delay Shall happen till I make tivain one at least ; So now unto the altar—then unto the feast."

Mirth bad commenced, so bad the feast ; the glow Of torches and of tapers threw a stain Upon the goblets in their red o'crflow, By pledging hands high lifted up to drain : The minstrel, too, was ready with his strain, And maidens with their feet. Into the hall The Priest came—" Children, it is not in vain Ye drink and dance; for mortal men are all Weighed in the balance,—words God wrote on Babel's wall.

"One little hour—one little hour and ye Are gone for ever, like the summer flowers; Gone like the sunshine of the maiden's ee; Gone like the song which gladdened all the bowers : So dance and sing—the present hour is ours. Now, what readest thou, fair bride, in that dark sea, Thou lookest so serious on it : all the shores, From Allan Water round to bright Saint-Bee Are in thick darkness wrapt : what, lady, dust thou see? "

" I see nought, Father ; I but turn my face

To my fair country—to green Elvar side—

To that sweet land where my abiding-place Has been—and shall be." " Daughter, do not hide

Such feelings; they are human-nature's pride."

She heard no more; a sudden burst of levin Showed her the Solway flashing far and wide, And a small shallop anchoring in the haven, Beside the castle wall. She held her hands to heaven, And said, " God help the righteous—smite the bad ! " "Daughter, in this meek frame of mind, 'twere meet, That thou should'st to the chapel-altar : glad The church will be espousals such to greet, Beauty to Bravery—to the Strong the Sweet." " Father," she said, "lead on ; to lady's bower I never went with half such willing feet : There is a saye—high Elvar house shall tower, When its last child is won, even in the witching hour."

"Come, then, to church," the Abbot said, "fair child."

" Sir Monk," the bridegroom cried, "this castle hall Shall be my church; the chapel has been soiled By Luther's vermin ; there his blind worms crawl, And leave their slime upon the blessed wall; So now, good Father, wed us where we stand." "Sir Knight, we may not disobey the call Of Mother Church; nay, never touch thy brand ; I stand like Skiddaw fell, or Solway's stubborn strand."

Hugh Lydal came and said, " A holy man, A hermit or a strolling monk, is come, And asks for shelter till the morrow's dawn."

"Now in good time," Sir Ralph said, "give him room. Father," he said, "art thou from holy Rome, Or from the famed Lorett ? if so, decide, And what thou sayest shall be with me a doom:

Here where I stand, I wish to wed my bride;

This holy Abbot says, at the high altar side."

" Stay," said the Abbot, " Wanderer, who art thou, 'That comest in palmer's weeds with locks unshorn ? .A morion better would befit thy brow; And for those lips a warrior's battle-horn.

Thou art no godly priest, I dare be sworn." "No priest, but godly," thus the Palmer said, " For I have been where our true Lord was born, In Judah's land : in Heshbon's holy glade I've knelt, and silent walked 'heath Carmel's sacred shade.

a I am, Sir Priest, of Scotland, and I've drunk Of woes as full as warriors e'er drank wine ; One that I loved was in the waters sunk, And I went mad : Sir Knight, this tale of mine- Is not for bridal speed. On Solway brine

To-night a whirlwind found me and my bark;

That I was saved I hold it as a sign God vet has work for me." And lowering dark, He looked around, marked all, yet seemed no one to mark. "Now to your question. 'Tis unholy deemed To wed save in some sacred place, and where Is ought so sacred in the world esteemed As is the holy church ? Fearest thou the air, And that this maiden with the forehead fair

Will falt:,r? Ah ! Sir Knight, ye little know

How willingly young maidens wander there." "Peace, peace," cried Ralph Latoun, "ho ! torches, ho! And ape the chapel-doors. Sweet lady, wilt thou go?"

Young Sybil rose, and standing 'midst the hall,

Shook brick her wanderilig curls, and mournful said, " I speak less to your lord, ti cm to you all : Here I, a captive, from my home conveyed

Perforce, by tbree in bridal gran arrayed,

13y force to en to the altar, and by force Wedded to one I cannot love, and made

A world's wander. Have ye no remorse,

And fear ye not the Lord ? Oh, many a blackened corse

This dcyd of thine shall make." " Nay, daughter,, nay," Ti•zi :idiot said ; " Be soothed ; air, marvellous sweet

Will this be to thee ere the break of day." .Tmt then came torches flashing 'mongst their feet ; The gates flew wide; they beard the big waves beat, As down they went, for 'neath the castle rock The chapel ;mod. The timbrels waked and meet The bridal time the culverines loudly spoke—

A levin flash said twelve by the high castle clock.

Forth to the chapel altar now they pass : Bridemaids all in a smile and titter go ; Next them the bride, her brow, as in a glass, Showed much of anguish and a heart iu wo. By her the bridegroom, with iris sable brow, Arid weapon at his side ; urea said that be Looked wild, and are Iris glance went to and fro ; Hugh Lydal walker! behind ; and two or three

• Of his staunch comrades came, all jesting, frank, and free.

The Abbot's bands are on the holy book, The bridegroom's on the bride's ; but who is he

That comes, nor collies alone ? Cahn is his look :

'Tis Eustace Grieme, and he save smilinglie, " Sir Knight, true love is as the sunshine free— So, Sybil, come." Sir Ralph Latoun her hand

Drops, and his sharp sword plucks out suddenlie

" Ho! stay her Lydal—I'll stay hinz." Each brand

Was in that moment quenched, and darkness ruled the land.

Lydal had stayed her, but a stalwart grasp His shoulder got ; a low voice in his ear Said, "Frozen serpent—viper—poisonous asp :" And as each word was said, a weapon clear

Was thrust and thrust. Latoun cried, " Comrades, here—

Here with your swords; there's traitors in the church." Even as he shouted, helm and sword and spear Came hurrying on ; right through the castle porch Rushed many a wondering face and many a flaming torch.

Down from the church unto the shallop, see, As flies the dove when hawks are in the air, Flies Sybil—Eustace follows, turns, and he Strikes as he turns, and guards her here and there. " Spread high the sail, pluck up the anchor, fair The wind blows o'er to Elver; wondrous good Is God : and see, of all rare things most rare, Here's my sweet Sybil. Now, by book and rood, -Glad is the sea to bear such beauty o'er its flood."

Ere good Miles Grwme bore Sybil through the flood, And set her on the deck, there came a cry Such as the famished vulture gives for food, Ere lambs are yeaned, and he is in the sky. Back foot by foot, for no one thinks to fly, Young Eustace with his comrades gained the strand. Aloud the Palmer cries, " My gallant boy, Thy bride is won ;" and saying so, his brand Struck down the foremost man, the boldest of the band.

" She is not won yet, churles," cried Ralph Latoun, And down into the combat fierce he swept, As grim Death conies when he has much unmown, And here his harvest seemed but half-way reapt. Stroke follows stroke, and blow on blow is heapt ; Some drop, some bleed, yet still the field make good, And gain it : last of all young Eustace leapt Into the barge, and all unscathed he stood, And cried, "Now, my love, now, thou'rt free as Solway flood."

" She's won, she's won ! " a score of tongues replied ; " She's won, she's won!" and at the gladsome sound, Against the surge the shallop laid her side, And started as the deer before the hound.

Down in the surge Latoun came with a bound- " Return, base churl, and fight me, else I'll chase Thee far as Scotland owns an inch of ground : Return, or else even in thy dwelling-place, beat thee with a rod before thy mother's face." Eustace said " mother ! " and straight on him gushed Remembrance of her wrongs : his sword he drew, And made the flood flash o'er him as he rushed Back to the shore ; ere well his rival knew He stood before him. "Death between us two Holds up his glass, and shakes his latest sand."

The shallop back into the haven flew—

Young Eustace stood alone ; he sheathed his brand, Leaped m—pushed off—a moan was heard along the strand.

This may be said to be the catastrophe. The curtain ought to drop : but the young couple are to be married—and the Palmer is to doff his weeds and stand up as the Lord of Elver, and true love is to be something further tried. Our readers, who will pro- bably wish to see how all is brought about, are referred to the book for ample satisfaction. The author is a man who deserves the patronage of his fellow men—the public.