Then did their loss his foemen know;

Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,

They melted from the field as snow

When streams are swoln and south winds blow,

Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,

While many a broken band,
Disordered, through her currents dash,

To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong;
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear,

Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,

And broken was her shield.

The ballads and traditions of Scotland are full of the lamentation and the desolation long produced there by this fatal battle.

"The Scots," says Sir Walter Scott, "were much disposed to dispute the fact that James IV. had fallen on Flodden Field. Some said he had retired from the kingdom, and made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Others pretended that, in the twilight, when the field was nigh ended, four tall horsemen came into the field, having each a bunch of straw on the point of their spears, as a token for them to know each other by. They said these men mounted the king on a dun hackney, and that he was seen to cross the Tweed with them at nightfall. Nobody pretended to say what they did with him, but it was believed

he was murdered in Howe Castle; and I recollect about forty years since, that there was a report that, in cleaning the drawwell of that ruinous fortress, the workmen found a skeleton wrapt in a bull's hide, and having a belt of iron round the waist. There was, however, no truth in this rumour. It was the absence of this belt of iron which the Scots founded upon to prove that the body of James could not have fallen into the hands of the English, since they either had not that token to show, or did not produce it. But it is not unlikely that he would lay aside such a cambrous article of penance on a day of battle; or the English, when they despoiled his person, may have thrown it aside as of no value. The body which the English affirm to have been that of James, was found on the field by Lord Dacre, and carried by him to Berwick, and presented to Surrey. Both of these lords knew James's person too well to be mistaken. The body was also acknowledged by his two favourite attendants, Sir William Scott and Sir James Forman, who wept at beholding it."

The singular history of these remains, Stow, in his "Survey of London." 4to, p. 539, thus furnishes from his own knowledge. What a strange end for so proud and chivalrous a king, and what treatment from the hands of a brother-inlaw-Henry VIII.—who certainly refused the body Christian burial!

"After the battle, the bodie of the same king being found, was closed in lead, and conveyed from thence to London, and to the monasterie of Sheyne in Surrey, where it remained for a

time, in what order I am not certaine; but since the dissolution of that house, in the reygne of Edward the Sixt, Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolke, being lodged, and keeping house there, I have been shewed the same bodie so lapped in lead, close to the head and bodie, throwne into a waste room amongst the old timber, lead, and other rubble. Since the which time, workmen there for their foolish pleasure, hewed off his head; and Lancelot Young, master glazier to Queen Elizabeth, feelinge a sweet savour to come from thence, and yet the form remaining, with the hair of the head and beard red, brought it to London to his house in Wood-street, where (for a time) he kept it for the sweetness; but, in the end, caused the sexton of that church to bury it amongst other bones, taken out of their charnel."

VISIT TO BOLTON PRIORY.

THE man of genius is often looked upon as a being that shuts himself up, and knows little of what is going on in the real world around him. He is supposed to live in a fairyland of his own creation-often a very barren and profitless one-full of all manner of enchantments and magical delusions. In reference to him, men of arts and sciences, the men of spinning-jennies and steam-engines-nay, the naturalists, and many other writers -talk of themselves as practical men. They often smile at the

poet and the romance-writer, as men of the world affect to do, and say—“O! a very clever, a very clever fellow indeed; but as ignorant of actual life as a child." But the poets and romancers of late have proved themselves both to be profitable fellows and practical ones. To say nothing of vast sums coined from the brain of Scott and of Byron; look at the comfortable nest which Moore has feathered for himself. Very pretty sums he has fobbed now and then. See old George Crabbe going down to his parsonage with 30007. in his saddle-bags at one time. Look at the poet's house at Keswick: it has a library in it which has cost a fortune; and the poet and historian sits there now, what with salaries, pensions, Quarterly Review articles, and residuary legateeships, as no inconsiderable man of substance. There is that "old man eloquent" too, his neighbour at Rydal Mount, who, if he have not amassed a mount of gold on which to build his palace, has got a poet's bower on one of the most delicious little knolls in Europe, warmed by as much affection and domestic peace as ever crowned one man's hearth; and having no mark or stamp of poverty about it. Yes, and spite of Edinburgh and Quarterly, and a host of lower critics who echoed their owl-notes, his poetry is become fashionable! Only think of that-"The Idiot Boy" and "Betty Foy," "The Old Wanderer" in his worsted stockings, and "Michael" and "The Wagoner," become fashionable, so that every critic who knows no more of poetry than he did ten years ago, now cries "glorious! divine! inimitable!" at every new edition of his poems. Yes, and so they shall cry--for such is the ultimate