sad and weary affair, unless shared with County Guy. And what suggestions nature makes to the aged ministrel describing the battle:

"There is no breeze upon the fern,

No ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyry nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,

Or echoes from the groaning ground

The warrior's measur'd tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,

Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?"

The following fine description of a sunset is full of sad regret, recalling happier hours, ere they faded away and were gone like the setting sun:

"The sultry Summer day is done,

The western hills have hid the sun,
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.

"The Lady

of the Lake." Canto VI.

"Rokeby."

Canto V.

"Mar

mion."

Canto II.

Written for
George
Thomson's
"Scottish

Melodies."

And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay,
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold array'd
Streaks yet a while the closing shade,
Then slow resigns to darkening heaven
The tints which brighter hours had given."

And how full of sadness are these lines:

"Now from the summit to the plain
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
And on the landscape as I look
Nought do I see unchang'd remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan

Of early friendships, past and gone."

The following pathetic verses show clearly how deeply nature reflected his changed feelings:

"The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill
In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet,

The westland wind is hush'd and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet;

Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it wore,

Though evening with her richest dye
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

"With listless look along the plain

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,
Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?

"Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strain'd and useless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply?
To aching eye each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill,
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill."

This poem shows how subjective was Scott's view of nature, and he seems in it to completely refute Ruskin's argument in his own verse.

That nature is not always sad to the poets we see in Wordsworth's beautiful poem about the daffodils, and the delight the recollection of them gave him:

"I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

"The waves beside them danc'd, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay

"I wander'd lonely

as a cloud."

"To Daffodils." R. Herrick.

In such a jocund company!

I gaz'd and gaz'd- but little thought
What wealth the show to me bad brought.

"For oft when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills

And dances with the daffodils."

But these same flowers suggested a sadder train of thought to Herrick:

"Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Tennyson in this well-known passage shows how the same scene can be full of happiness or despairing sorrow, in accordance with the feelings of the lover:

"Many an evening on the moorland

did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters

did we watch the stately ships,

And our spirits rushed together

at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow hearted!

O my Amy, mine no more!

O the dreary, dreary moorland!

O the barren, barren shore!"

And again in one of the most perfect of his short pieces he tells of a scene recalling to memory the friend he had loved and lost. How fine is the effect of the constant repetition of the words "All along the valley"! It seems to unite the present and the past, and to give a permanence and reality to the poet's dream and make it a living thing:

"All along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley where thy waters flow,

I walk'd with one I loved, two and thirty years ago.

"Locksley Hall."

"In the Valley of Cauteretz."