That the manners of the Valhalla and the exploits of the Vikingr had made a lasting impression upon Motherwell's imagination we have abundant proof in the first three poems of this volume; and my own impression is, that in future times his fame will rest in a great measure on these splendid specimens of warlike invocation. As he
rials in which his genius most delighted. 'He loved fairies, genii, giants, and monsters; he delighted to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens'—(Johnson). His ode on 'The Passions' shows how familiar his mind was with those terrible images in which we naturally, as it were, involve the harsher emotions of the soul; and it is probable, from the extent and variety of his attainments, and his allusion in the ode on the popular superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, inscribed to Mr Home, to those—
'Old Runic bards . . . . .
With uncouth lyres, in many colour'd vest,'
that he was not unacquainted with the mythical treasures of the Sagas. There is nothing finer or more vigorous in the language than his description of Revenge:—
'He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.'
C
