Four of the brightest intellects that ever adorned any age or country. are then named, and a fifth who, though not equal to the least of them, is not unworthy of their company; and what follows?

      “I wish them every joy above
      That highly blessed spirits prove,
      Save one, and that too shall be theirs,
      But after many rolling years,
      WHEN ’MID THEIR LIGHT THY LIGHT APPEARS.”

Here are Chaucer, Shakspeare, Milton, Spenser, Dryden too, all in bliss above, yet not to be perfectly blest till the arrival of Wordsworth among them!  Who wrote that, Mr. Landor? [123]

[Footnote 123:  Whom Mr. L., who is the most capricious as well as the most arrogant of censors, sometimes takes into favour.]

Landor.—­I did, Mr. North.

North.—­Sir, I accept your article.  It shall be published in Blackwood’s Magazine.  Good-morning, sir.

Landor.—­Good-day, sir.  Let me request your particular attention to the correction of the press. (Landor retires.)

North.—­He is gone!  Incomparable Savage!  I cannot more effectually retaliate upon him for all his invectives against us than by admitting his gossiping trash into the Magazine.  No part of the dialogue will be mistaken for Southey’s; nor even for Porson’s inspirations from the brandy-bottle.

All the honour due to the author will be exclusively Mr. Walter Savage Landor’s; and, as it is certainly “not worth five shillings,” no one will think it “worth borrowing or putting on.”

* * * * *

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

  Sound the fife, and raise the slogan—­let the pibroch shake the air
  With its wild triumphal music, worthy of the freight we bear;
  Let the ancient hills of Scotland hear once more the battle song
  Swell within their glens and valleys as the clansmen march along. 
  Never, from the field of combat, never from the deadly fray,
  Was a nobler trophy carried than we bring with us to-day: 
  Never, since the valiant Douglas in his dauntless bosom bore
  Good King Robert’s heart—­the priceless—­to our dear Redeemer’s shore! 
  Lo! we bring with us the hero—­Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme,
  Crown’d as best beseems a victor from the altar of his fame;
  Fresh and bleeding from the battle whence his spirit took its flight
  Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, and the thunder of the fight! 
  Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, as we march o’er moor and lea,
  Is there any here will venture to bewail our dead Dundee? 
  Let the widows of the traitors weep until their eyes are dim;
  Wail ye may indeed for Scotland—­let none dare to mourn for him! 
  See, above his glorious body lies the royal banner’s fold—­
  See, his valiant blood is mingled with its crimson and its gold—­