he is too short, too
sharp, and too eagerly bent on his rugged way, for a poet who is
always delighting to find loopholes, even in battle, from which to
look out upon the great story of human nature), he is certainly
nearest to it in such a passage as this:--

"The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mix'd,
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt."

In hardly any of Scott's poetry do we find much of what is called the
_curiosa felicitas_ of expression,--the magic use of _words_, as
distinguished from the mere general effect of vigour, purity, and
concentration of purpose. But in _Marmion_ occasionally we do find
such a use. Take this description, for instance, of the Scotch tents
near Edinburgh:--

"A thousand did I say? I ween
Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That chequer'd all the heath between
The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,
_And tamed the glaring white with green_;
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array."

The line I have italicized seems to me to have more of the poet's
special magic of expression than is at all usual with Scott. The
conception of the peaceful green oak wood _taming_ the glaring white
of the tented field, is as fine in idea as it is in relation to the
effect of the mere colour on the eye. Judge Scott's poetry by whatever
test you will--whether it be a test of that which is peculiar to it,
its glow of national feeling, its martial ardour, its swift and rugged
simplicity, or whether it be a test of that which is common to it with
most other poetry, its attraction for all romantic excitements, its
special feeling for the pomp and circumstance of war, its love of
light and colour--and tested either way, _Marmion_ will remain his
finest poem. The battle of Flodden Field touches his highest point in
its expression of stern patriotic feeling, in its passionate love of
daring, and in the force and swiftness of its movement, no less than
in the brilliancy of its romantic interests, the charm of its
picturesque detail,