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THE CELTIC MAGAZINE. 327The following shews Padric trying to weave spells over the high heartedand simple minded MargaretTo my discourse —She listened nobly, till her piercing eyesBegan to lose their wild imperious gleam,Resolving all their fires to gentleness ;Until they beamed as liquid as a fawn's,Betraying of a surety that her heartWas inflaming 'neath love's primal potency,I bade her love the ever praising deep,The singing sky the solemn sounding woods.The varied creatures that did her surround.Campbell (aside)—O descant hypocriticalPadric—And with a deep pathetic stroke of speeeliI bade her seek the power reciprocal.To feel which makes our happiness secure.Lost in the fervour of my soft assault,AVith blandest tones I asked if e'er she loved.Sighing and gazing upwards she replied," "I love my father much !Accident and the entrance of her attendant interrupt the issue. Thewhole scene from p. 28 to 32 is Avell wortliy of perusal.Ian Vor's closing words are full of fireFriends,let festivitiesProclaim our victory throughout our Isle ;Short they must be, for we have work to do,Our royal master hath his standard raised,joined to Maclean we now shall aid him soon;Our summons peal out from the war-pipes throat,On with the fiery cross : gather our braves;Launch out our galleys ! Battles ring afar,Unsheath the swords which never knew defeat.We must away to drive the tyrants back.Our Margaret has triumphed, so will we ;I'll lead you on, for Scotland must be free.The watchword " Bruce," come follow Ian Vnr,I All (ill acclamation with sioords ?wtri'rt'/^— Scotland for everThe drama, besides many more vigorous and vivid lines, has also agood number that are rough, unlicked, and cacophonous. We wouldalmost recommend to Mr Allan to forget Ossian for a while and addicthimself to Pope. A course of that melliiluous poet would do his versificationno harm.The best, we think, is that ofWe have one or two Ipics interposed.]\Iona at her spinning wheel, and witli it we close our brief notice of hisvery forcefirl and animated, although l)y no means finished or perfectThe lover woos his blooming bride,The clansman loves his lord.The fisher loves his rushing tide,The fiery youth his sword.I envy not their loves or joys,O !let my bosom feel,The golden pleasures that ariseWhen spinning at my wheel.