metre than that of the "Lay," less varied than that of "Marmion."
"Rokeby" lives only by its songs; the "Lord of the Isles" by Bannockburn,
the "Field of Waterloo" by the repulse of the Cuirassiers. But all the
poems are interspersed with songs and ballads, as the beautiful ballad of
"Alice Brand"; and Scott's fame rests on _these_ far more than on his
later versified romances. Coming immediately after the very tamest poets
who ever lived, like Hayley, Scott wrote songs and ballads as wild and
free, as melancholy or gay, as ever shepherd sang, or gipsy carolled, or
witch-wife moaned, or old forgotten minstrel left to the world, music
with no maker's name. For example, take the Outlaw's rhyme--

"With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold dragoon
That lists the tuck of drum.
I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And, oh, though Brignal banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my Queen of May!"

How musical, again, is this!--

"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again.
He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, 'Adieu for evermore,
My love!
Adieu for evermore!'"

Turning from the legends in verse, let it not be forgotten that Scott was
a great lyrical poet. Mr. Palgrave is not too lenient a judge, and his
"Golden Treasury" is a touchstone, as well as a treasure, of poetic gold.
In this volume Wordsworth contributes more lyrics than any other poet:
Shelley and Shakespeare come next; then Sir Walter. For my part I would
gladly sacrifice a few of Wordsworth's for a few more of Scott's. But
this may be prejudice. Mr. Palgrave is not prejudiced, and we see how
high is his value for Sir Walter.

There are scores of songs in his works, touching and sad, or gay as a
hunter's waking, that tell of lovely things lost by tradition, and found
by him on the moors: all these--not prized by Sir Walter himself--are in
his gift, and in that of no other man. For example, his "Eve of St.
John" is simply a masterpiece, a ballad among ballads. Nothing but an
old song moves us like--

"Are these the links o' Forth,