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It is only necessary to add, as the concluding event of this book, that Inogen, the instant she is

Indians display at its approach. Many instances of the kind are given by Bartholine. He mentions (1. 1. c. 5.) a Danish princess, who, though her husband was slain before her face, and her son transfixed with spears, neither grew pale at the approach of death, nor changed the serenity of her countenance; but with her last breath resolutely declared that the shedding her blood should cause the destruction of her enemies. A warrior being taken prisoner, and offered his liberty, rejected it; but gratefully acknowledged his enemy's generous indulgence, in permitting him, according to his request, to be burnt alive with some of his particular friends. Another endures unmoved the sharpest torments; answers with great composure his enemies' interrogatories, and talks with the same cheerfulness as if sitting at a banquet. Another, while his intestines were pulling out, is said not to have uttered a single groan. Bartholine quotes in a different chapter (1. 1. c. 10.) the epicedium, which he sung while suffering the most grievous torments It is much in the same style with Lodbroc's well known ode, and like that, in several places, greatly resembles the death-song of a Canadian savage. It appears probable, that the Norwegians, (vide Mallet's Hist. of Denmark, v. 1. c. 11.) in the tenth and eleventh centuries, discovered that part of America, and made frequent voyages to it. To suppose that so peculiar a mode of setting death and their enemies' cruelty at defiance originated from those adventurers who settled there, and in process of time might have been incorporated with the original inhabitants, would be too



freed from the embrace of Hengist, by the appearance of the Danish monarch, bounds away through the forest, terror giving wings to her speed.

We now return, at the opening of the seventh and last book, to the hero of the poem, whom we had left at the close of the fifth eagerly pursuing the unfortunate Valdemar, until that chieftain and his infuriated steed were lost, as night came on, in the shades of Celidon. Arthur, now finding every effort to overtake his enemy for the present unavailing, gives up the pursuit, determined that, when morning dawns, the forest shall no longer conceal him from his vengeance. In the mean time, himself and his courser being nearly exhausted by their exertions, he anxiously looks round for a place of shelter and repose, and, at length, meets both beneath the friendly thatch of a shepherd.

hazardous a conjecture. A similarity between the customs of barbarous nations is no proof of their being descended from the same race of people; yet where the resemblance is singular and striking, as in the above and following instance, it may not appear unworthy notice, though no particular inference can be drawn from it. The old Scythians, according to Herodotus (1. 4.) made cups of their enemies' skulls, and carried their scalps about them, aś marks of their valour and emblems of victory. It is well known that the Indians in North America consider the latter in the same light. The Goths, who are generally allowed to be descended from the ancient Scythians, being no less polished than they were, and somewhat more so than the Canadian nationis now are, neglected the scalps of their enemies, but fashioned, like their ancestors, their skulls into cups, as more durable and elegant trophies of their military renown.”-HOLE.

Deep in a vale, adjacent to the wood,
A humble dome, a straw-roof'd cottage stood;
There dwelt a peasant and his gentle wife-
Unknown to sorrow flow'd their peaceful life;
In rural cares their fleeting hours were spent ;
Their labour pleasure, and their wealth content.

He is received by this lowly but honest couple, as soon as their first fears and astonishment are subdued, with the utmost simplicity and kindness. They are sitting at their evening meal, and invite their guest, whom they yet view with mingled awe and admiration, to partake of it. The scene is one on which the poet seems to dwell with complacent delight; and he has brought before us a picture that, in point of domestic sweetness and natural beauty, has seldom been excelled, and which, in some of its features, reminds us of that exquisitely tender passage at the close of the sixth Iliad, where the child of Hector is represented as shrinking with terror from his dazzling armour and nodding crest. Of Arthur, who had just succeeded in allaying the apprehensions of his new friends, it is said

His helm unbraced, how mild his features shone !
Soft as the radiance of the setting sun.
The children, frighten’d at the armour's blaze,
Cling round the mother, and in terror gaze.

While smiles benignant brighten'd o'er his face,
He clasp'd their tender hands with gentle grace,
And thus address'd them : “Every fear remove,
Ye lovely objects of connubial love!
Curst be the wretch who wrongs your tender years,
And fills the harmless shepherd's eye with tears.'

Embolden'd by the hero's words advance
The infant pair; ofttimes his weighty lance
They vainly strive to lift, and, half afraid,
Touch the keen edge of his destructive blade.
Now mid the helm's white plumes their fingers stray,
And with its sculptured forms delighted play.
The mother frowns and chides; whilst in her eyes
Joy conscious springs, and her feign'd wrath belies.

And now the cheerful fire is raised; the board
With choicer viands spread; while Britain's lord
To each fond child beside him placed imparts
The grateful cates, and wins their little hearts.

With added joy the parents' bosoms glow, And blessings on their noble guest bestow; And form the wish they never felt before, That fate had granted them an ampler store

Of Fortune's favours; but the wish how vain!
Souls fraught with honour idle pomp

disdain. They mark the efforts of the heart alone; And willing minds all other wants atone.

Oh Hospitality, thou power benign! Though others bow not at thy sacred shrine, Yet may’st thou never from this realm depart, But find a temple in each British heart !-B. vii. p. 213.


Invigorated by repose, the prince rises early in the morning, and after taking leave of the kind cottagers, who follow him with their blessings and prayers, he enters the wood in pursuit of Valdemar, calling upon his name, and defying him to combat. At length, wearied by fruitless search, he is about to quit it, when he is met by a knight wearing on his helmet a wreath of laurel mixed with cypress, and whom, to his surprise, he immediately discovers to be Cradoc. The chief informs him that he and Lionel had lately encountered and defeated the Saxons, led on by Ulfin, on the banks of the Avon, but that Guendolen, the faithful and beloved mistress of his friend, had perished during the action. She had followed him to the battle disguised as a youthful warrior, and perceiving him, owing to the fall of his horse, exposed to the sword of the exulting Ulfin, she rushed forward to intercept the blow,



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