This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' —a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, which became popular,—and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788.

His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of 'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, as Burns says, of 'the first poet.'

CUMNOR HALL.

1 The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.

2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.

3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee.

5 'Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark so blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

7 'If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

8 'And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say!
And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

9 'Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily's dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey,
And tender love's repaid with scorn,
The sweetest beauty will decay:
What floweret can endure the storm?

11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare,
That eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one;
Among the fields wild-flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my passing beauty rare.

14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
It is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,
The injured surely may repine,
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?

16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave me to mourn the livelong day?

17 'The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go:
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.

18 'The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;
To be content, than to be great.

19 'How far less blessed am I than them,
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
"Countess, prepare—thy end is near."

22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay;
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a body seems to say,
"Countess, prepare—thy end is near."'

24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

25 And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aËrial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

27 The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour, for never more
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

28 And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

29 The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor never lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

30 Full many a traveller has sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall,
As wandering onwards they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

1 But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

2 Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak—I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stocking white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.

5 There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stocking pearl blue—
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;
His breath's like caller air;
His very fit has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.

8 And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth I'm like to greet.