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misfortunes, and his wearisome imprisonment. They are extremely natural and touching; and perhaps are rendered more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated complaints, which we sometimes meet in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness on an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility; but, having mentioned them, passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathise with James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth, from all the enterprise and noble uses of life, as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief but deeptoned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. From a passage in the first canto, we find that the favourite book of James, while in prison, was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his great predecessor Chaucer. And, indeed, it would be difficult to find, out of the sacred writings, a more admirable text book for meditation under misfortune. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity the stores of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom; or, like the good King James, lay it on his nightly pillow.

At what period of his durance he fell in love with the Lady Jane is uncertain; but from that moment, it is probable, he hung up philosophy, and became poetical. The description of his first seeing her is picturesque, and given with great beauty of detail. He was in the midst of one of his fits of lonely weariness, despairing, as he says, of all joy and remedy. "For tired of thought, and

wo-begone," he wandered to the window to watch the passers by, and gaze out upon the world, the poor solace of the captive. The window looked forth upon a small garden, which lay at the foot of the tower; it was a quiet sheltered spot, adorned with arbours and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges.

"Now was there made fast by the tower's wall
A garden faire, and in the corners set
An arbour green, with wandes long and small,
Railed about, and so with leaves beset
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,
That lyf was none walkyng there forbye,
That might within scarce any wight espye.
"So thick the branches, and the leves green,
Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And midst of every arbour might be seen
The sharpe, grene, sweet juniper,
Growing so fair with branches here and there,
That as it seemed to a lyf without,

The boughs did spread the arbour all about.
"And on the small green twistis sat

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung
So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate
Of luvis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the gardens and the wallis rang
Ryght of their song."

It was the month of May, when every thing was in its bloom. As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he gradually lapses into one of those tender and undefinable reveries that fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be of which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstacy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignificant of beings, why alone is he cut off from its enjoyments?

"Oft would I think; O Lord, what may this be,
That love is of so noble myght and kynde?

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in bukis find:

May he oure hertes setten and unbynd:
Hath he upon our hearts such maistrye?
Or is all this but feynit fantasye?
For giff he be of so grete excellence,

That he of every wight hath care and charge;
What have I gilt to him, or done offense,

That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large?"

In the midst of his musings, as he cast his eyes downward, he beheld, he says, the fairest and the freshest young flower that ever he had seen; it was the beautiful Lady Jane, walking in the garden: she at once captivated the fancy of the romantic prince-became the object of his wishes the sovereign of his ideal world. There is, in all this charming scene, a similarity to the early part of Chaucer's knight's tale, where Palemon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their prison. But, perhaps, the very similarity of the fact to the poetical incident which he had read may have induced James to have dwelt upon it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is more elaborate than Chaucer's of Emilia. He dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, even to the "goodly chain of small orfeverye" about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in the shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom.

"In her was youth, beautie, with humble port,
Bountie, richesse, and womanly feature,
(God better wot than my pen can reporte,)
Wisdome, largesse estate; and cunning sure,
In every point so guided her mesure,
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,
That nature might no more her child advance."

Whether this was really the manner in which James first saw the lady of his heart, or whether it was a mere poetical fiction, it is fruitless to conjecture. Do not let us always distrust what is picturesque and romantic, as incompatible with real life; but sometimes take a poet

at his word. I find I am insensibly swelling this story beyond my original intention, and must bring it to a close. James, though unfortunate in the general tenor of his life, was more happy in his love than is generally the lot of poets.

When, at length, he was released from his tedious captivity, and restored to his crown, he espoused the Lady Jane, who made him a most tender and devoted wife. She was the faithful sharer of his joys and his troubles; and when, after a brief but memorable reign of thirteen years, he was barbarously murdered by his own relatives at Perth, she interposed her body to shield him from harm, and was repeatedly wounded by the sword of the assassin. It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and of the golden little poem that had its birth-place in this tower, that made me visit the old pile with such lively interest. The suit of armour, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the romantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem. I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was in the same genial month; every thing was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourished at the foot of the tower. The arbours, it is true, have disappeared, yet the place is still sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has once been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and hallowed by the inspirations of the poet, that is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to consecrate every place in which it moves; to breathe around nature an odour more exquisite than the perfume of the rose; and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. Others may speak of the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior and a legislator, but I have delighted to view him as the benefactor

of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common life. He did all in his power to soften and refine the spirit of his countrymen. He wrote many poems which are now lost to the world. He improved the national music; and traces of his tender and elegant taste may be found in those witching airs still piped among the mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus embalmed his memory in song, and floated it down to after ages in the rich stream of Scottish melody. All these things were kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto, but I never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor.

Washington Irving.

ODE TO HOPE.

BRIGHT morning star of bliss, whose cheering ray
Shines through the mist of dark futurity,

Illumes the night of woe,

And gilds the clouds of care;

Whom shall the youthful muse but thee invoke ?
Whom shall she sing, O beauteous Hope, but thee?
For 'twas from thee she learnt

To sweep the golden lyre :

And, guided by thy calm and steady light,
Imagination wings his trackless way;
Soars into realms unknown,

To regions unexplored.

Thou art the pulse of nature! urged by thee,
Each different member acts his little part,

VOL. IV.

Life through the system flows,

And animates the world.

H

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