his invitation on the English Baron, that he "may breathe his war-horse well," for—
"The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
And love to couch a spear.
St. George! a stirring life they lead
That have such neighbours near."
Wat Tinlyn gives, in three lines, an equally vivid notion of the consequences of such "pleasant pastime:"—
"They burn'd my little lonely tower;
The foul fiend rive their souls therefore!
It had not been burn'd a year or more."
Not to have your house burned over your head for a twelvemonth seems an unwonted piece of domestic quiet. The metre, too, of these noble poems was admirably chosen. It is entirely English; it belongs to the period it illustrates; and the battle alone in "Marmion" may show what was its spirit and strength. It must, indeed, have rung like a silver trumpet amid the silken inanities of the Hayley and Seward school. It is quite odd now to read the sort of deprecating praise with which these poems were received by the established critical authorities. The expression of popular applause is too strong to be resisted, but while Mr. Scott's talents are universally admitted, he is constantly admonished to choose some loftier theme, as if any theme could have been better suited to a great na-
