Then "Annot Lyle," the fairy queen of light and song, stepped near, The "Knight of Ardenvohr," and _he_, the gifted Hieland Seer: "Dalgetty," "Duncan," "Lord Monteith," and "Ranald," met my view-- The hapless "Children of the Mist," and bold "Mhich-Connel-Dhu!" On swept "Bois Guilbert"--"Front de Boeuf"--"De Bracy's" plume of woe; And "Coeur de Lion's" crest shone near the valiant "Ivanhoe;" While soft as glides a summer cloud "Rowena" closer drew, With beautiful "Rebecca"--peerless daughter of the Jew! Still onward like the gathering night advanced that funeral train-- Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main; Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble ranks were seen, Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beauteous mien! A sound thrilled through that lengthening host! methought the vault was closed, Where in his glory and renown fair Scotia's bard reposed!-- A sound thrilled through that length'ning host! and forth my vision fled! But, ah! that mournful dream proved true,--the immortal Scott was dead! _Literary Gazette._ * * * * * LORD BYRON'S "LOVE." _From Lady Blessington's Conversations._ Of love he had strange notions: he said that most people had _le besoin d'aimer_, and that with this _besoin_ the first person who fell in one's way contented one. He maintained that those who possessed the most imagination, poets for example, were most likely to be constant in their attachments, as with the _beau ideal_ in their heads, with which they identified the object of their attachment, they had nothing to desire, and viewed their mistresses through the brilliant medium of fancy, instead of the common one of the eyes. "A poet, therefore (said Byron), endows the person he loves with all the charms with which his mind is stored, and has no need of actual beauty to fill up the picture. Hence he should select a woman, who is rather good-looking than beautiful, leaving the latter for those who, having no imagination, require actual beauty to satisfy their tastes. And after all (said he), where is the actual beauty that can come up to the bright 'imaginings' of the poet? where can one see women that equal the visions, half mortal, half angelic, that people his fancy? Love, who is painted blind (an allegory that proves the uselessness of beauty), can supply all deficiencies with his aid; we can invest her whom we admire with all the attributes of loveliness, and though time may steal the roses from her cheek, and the lustre from her eye, still the original _beau ideal_ remains, filling the mind and intoxicating the soul with the overpowering presence of loveliness. I flatter myself that my Leila, Zuleika, Gulnare, Medora, and Haidee will always vouch for my taste in beauty: these are the bright creations of my fancy, with rounded forms, and delicacy of limbs, nearly so