e _Beacon--_
But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.--His very charms
Fashion'd him for renown!--In sad sincerity,
The man that robs or writes must have long arms,
If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!
Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity,
Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
Bearing the name she bore,
A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy!
But Roys can never die--why else, in verity,
Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy_"!
Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di
Vernon, of course, shall often live again--
Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain,
Who can pass by
Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?
There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand!

X.

I like thy Landlord's Tales!--I like that Idol
Of love and Lammermoor--the blue-eyed maid
That led to church the mounted cavalcade,
And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal!
Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches--
I like the family (not silver) branches
That hold the tapers
To light the serious legend of Montrose.--
I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapors,
As if he could not walk or talk alone,
Without the devil--or the Great Unknown,--
Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

XI.

I like St. Leonard's Lily--drench'd with dew!
I like thy Vision of the Covenanters,
That bloody-minded Grahame shot and slew.
I like the battle lost and won;
The hurly-burlys bravely done,
The warlike gallop and the warlike canters!
I like that girded chieftain of the ranters,
Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple,
With one eye on his sword,
And one upon the Word,--
How _he_ would cram the Caledonian Chapel!
I like stern Claverhouse, though he cloth dapple
His raven steed with blood of many a corse--
I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels
Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse--
She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!

XII.

I like thy Kenilworth--but I'm not going
To take a Retrospective Re-Review
Of all thy dainty novels--merely showing
The old familiar faces of a few,
The question to renew,
How thou canst leave such deeds without a name,
Forego the unclaim'd Dividends of fame,
Forego the smiles of literary houris--
Mid-Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise,
And all the Carse of Gowrie's,
When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty--
O