58 THE SONGS OF u ROOKWOOD." 



not rescued the " land of song," from these interlopers. We trust 

 that Mr. Ainsworth will buckle on his armour, and drive these > 

 faineants from the field they have so long usurped. 



But it is now time to come to the lyrics before us. We have not 

 time, at this moment, to dispute the pretensions of these claimants to 

 distinction. We shall at once proceed to the songs of "Rookwood." In 

 this work Mr. Ainsworth has essayed almost every variety of versifi- 

 cation, of which the laws of metre are susceptible, and has approved 

 himself equal master of all. This will be more apparent in our col- 

 lective relics than in the book itself, where the songs only appear at 

 distinct intervals. Talent more diversified has scarcely ever, we 

 think, been displayed within the same compass. We have ditties of 

 all kinds grave, gay, humorous, impassioned, bacchanalian, and 

 flash. His lute is pitched in all keys. He now strikes the chord 

 with all the fervour and passion of a Spanish serenader now with the 

 wild hubbub, exciting merriment of the cantling crew now with 

 the dreariness of " worms, and epitaphs, and graves," now he 

 bursts forth with all the sparkling vivacity of a French chanson a 

 boire again dashes into all the reckless jollity, coupled with the breadth 

 and frolic of a roaring Irishman subsides into melancholy and 

 pathos aspires again into enraptured mysticism and then, anon 

 patters all the racy and unctuous jargon of the members of " the 

 Family." Specimens of all these varieties we shall now proceed to 

 place in juxta-position. Our first extract shall be from one of the old 

 sepulchral strains, which, independent of the force and origin of the 

 verse, presents, we think, a most striking picture. The effect of his 

 ballad upon ourselves was precisely that of a hideous nightmare. It 

 is like one of Fuseli's creations. Listen to 



" THE COFFIN. 



" In a church-yard upon the sward a coffin there was laid, 

 And leaning stood, beside the wood, a Sexton on his spade. 

 A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously, 

 With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie. 



" For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face, 

 With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace. 

 Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set, 

 And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones, together met. 



" ' Ah, well-a-day !' that Sexton gray unto himself did cry, 

 ' Beneath that lid much lieth hid much awful mysterie. 

 It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here ; 

 Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a freere. 



" ' In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined, 

 That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find ; 

 The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully, 

 In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see. 



" ' With pick and spade I've plied my trade, for sixty years and more, 

 Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before ; 

 Full many coffins have I seen have seen them deep or flat, 

 Fantastical in fashion none fantastical as that.' 



