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by way of “ doch-an-dorris," as the inches. The matter was, however, Gaelic folk say, we wished him a good. now past all earthly renede, and there night, and left him to drive home the was nothing to be done but trusting to bit gig, with a broken shaft spliced good fortune, and allowing the killingwith ropes, to his own bounds, little coat to take its chance in the world. jealousing, as we heard next morning, How the thing happened, I have that he would be thrown over the back bothered and beat my brains to no of it, without being hurt, by taking too purpose to make out, and it remains a sharp a turn at the corner.

wonderful mystery to me to this blessAfter a tremendous sound sleep, I ed day; but by long thought on the was up betimes in the morning, though subject, both when awake and in my a wee drumly about the head, anxious bed, and by multifarious cross-questo inquire at Tommy Bodkin, the head tionings at Tommy's self, concerning of the business department, me being the paper measurings, I am devoutly absent, if any extraordinars had oc- inclined to think, that he mistook the curred on the yesterday; and found nicking of the side-seams and the that the only particular customer mak- shoulder-strap, for the girth of the ing inquiries anent me, was our old belly-band. friend, Cursecowl, savage for the mea For more than a week, there was sure of a killing-coat, which he want- nothing but open war and rebellion ed made as fast as directly. Though throughout the parish, Cursecowl dreadfully angry at finding me from making the whole town of Dalkeith home, and unco swithering at first, he stand on end. I saw that he was not at length, after a volley of oaths likely soon to bold out a flag of truce, enough to have opened a stone wall, so I judged it best for both parties to allowed Tommy Bodkin to take his sound a parley; and offer either to inches ; but as he swore and went on take back the coat, or refund part of speaking nonsense all the time, Tom- the purchase-money. James Batter my's hand shook, partly through fear, was sent as ambassador, and the latand partly through anxiety ; and if he ter was agreed on; Cursecowl acwent wrong in making a nick in the cepting ten shillings by way of bloodpaper here and there in the wrong money, and making a legacy of the place, it was no more than might have coat to his nephew, young Killim. been looked for, froin his fright and The laddie was a perfect world'sinexperience.

wonder every Sunday, until he at In the twinkle of an eye-lid, I saw last rebelled, and fairly threw it aff; that there was some mortal mistake in and I was always in bodily terror, the measurement; as, unless Curse- that, had he gone to Edinburgh, he cowl had lost beef at no allowance, I would have been taken up by the poknew, judging from the past, that it lice, on suspicion of being a highwaywould not peep on his corpus by four robber.



And dreams, in their developement, have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They make us what we were not - what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by.”-Byron.

O SPIRIT-Land! thou land of dreams!
A world thou art of mysterious gleams,
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife-
A world of the dead in the hues of life.

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art,
When the wary shadows foat by and part;
Visions of aspects now lov’d, now strange,
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change.

Thou art like a City of the Past,
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast,
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play,
Familiar forms of the world's to-day.

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth,
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth-
All the blighted flowers of our days gone by,
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie.

Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves,
A realm of treasures, a realm of graves !
And the shapes, through thy mysteries that come and go,
Are of Beauty and Terror, of Power and Woe.

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep!
Thou art all one world of affections deep,
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye,
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery.

And thy bowers are fair—even as Eden fair!
All the beloved of my soul are there!
The forms, my spirit most pines to see,
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me.

They are there—and each blessed voice I hear,
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear;
But under-tones are in each, that say-
“ It is but a dream, it will melt away!"

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow,
I listen to music of long ago;
But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay-
“ It is but a dream, it will melt away!"

I sit by the hearth of my early days,
All the home-faces are met by the blaze-
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say-
“ It is but a dream, it will melt away!

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone,
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone!
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear-
Bright faces, kind voices !—where are ye, where ?

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams!
The past as it fled by my own blue streams
Make not my spirit within me burn,
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return.

Call out from the future thy visions bright,
From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn light,
And oh! with the Lov'd, when no more I see,
Show me my home, as it yet may be.

As it yet may be in some purer sphere,
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear;
So my soul may bear on through the long, long day,
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away.


BY L. E. L.

I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
For the departing color of thy flowers-
The green leaves early falling from thy boughs-
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs-
Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers ;-
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,
To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate
Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate.


When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear now,
When care shall have shadowed that beautiful brow-
When thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead,
And thy heart turns back pining to days that are fled-
Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass
Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass :
Oh! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee,
How rose-touched the page of thy future must be !
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
But flowers that flourish, but hopes that are fair;
And what is thy present ? a southern sky's spring;
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the wing.
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave;
So the heart sheds its color on life's early hour,
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower.
The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone,
And life, like the fountain, floats colorless on.
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was fled,
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the dead !
Oh ! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow,
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lovest now;
When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their mark;
Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more dark ;
When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost,
Or, scattered too freely, are wasted and lost :
For aye cometh sorrow, when youth has past by-
What saith the Arabian? Its memory 's a sigh.



(With a Portrait.) POETRY is almost coeval with the ori- occasional elevation of thought, a fit gin of society. Nations in general of animation, or a strong excitement, had poets, even before they were ac- will lead the speaker into a course of quainted with the elements of litera- diction superior to the tameness of ture. This assertion may seem pro- ordinary conversation. Figurative blematical to many ; but, if we reflect and metaphorical language, forcible on the nature of the case, it is not so allusions and apt comparisons, drawn surprising as to be incredible. An both from nature and from art, will

offer themselves to the mind of one poems, chiefly- of an amatory comwho unites imagination with talent; plexion. Some of these pieces are a measured cadence will soon follow; neither loose nor indelicate ; but othand this species of amusement will at ers seem to require the apology which length become an art. Thus poetry the author made for them, alleging may be supposed to have arisen. that they were the “productions of Sometimes it was left to make its own an age when the passions very often impression without accompaniment: give too warm a coloring to the imaon other occasions it was aided by gination, which may palliate, if it the rude music of early times. After cannot excuse, the air of levity that the introduction of writing, it neces- pervades so many of them.” sarily became more regular in its con In 1803 he procured an appointstruction, more elegant and refined. ment which gave him an opportunity

The earliest poets of whose genius of visiting the United States. Being we have any remains, were those of a strenuous advocate for freedom, he the Hebrew race. The Greeks sub- anxiously observed the nature of the sequently became famous in the poe- government and the state of society lic art, and were apparently the first in the republic ; but he found the fornation that reduced it to precise and mer less pure than he expected, and systematic rules. But a servile ad- the latter less pregnant with comfort. herence to rule is disclaimed by many He then repaired to St. George, one modern bards, who think that poets of the Bermuda islands, and began to are privileged to soar above all criti- act as registrar to the vice-admiralty cal laws. Genius, indeed, ought not court : but he did not long execute to be closely fettered: yet every the office in person, being content to branch of literature may be improved resign one half of the emolument to by rules, because, in general, they are a deputy, by whose imputed acts of founded

The embezzlement he was afterwards subwriter who now demands our notice jected to trouble and vexation. is well acquainted with the dicta and Continuing his literary pursuits, he the maxims of Aristotle and Longi- at length established his fame by the nus; and, if he does not always ob- beauties of Lalla Rookh. His illusserve them, it is because he ventures tration of a variety of national melosometimes to think for himself. dies, by appropriating characteristic

Mr. Thomas Moore was born in poetry to each, highly gratified the Dublin about the year 1780. Being public ; and the subsequent producthe son of a respectable merchant, he tions of bis Muse did not (as is somereceived a good education, first under times the case) detract from the preMr White, an able instructer, and vailing opinion of his merit. He has afterwards at Trinity College, where also distinguished himself as a biohis attainments as a classical scholar grapher. His Life of Sheridan is distinguished him above the generality marked by spirit and ability, as well of his fellow-students. In the year as by the graces of style; and it is 1795 he became a member of the so- free from that partiality which is too ciety of the Middle Temple. It was frequently shown where the life of a then his intention to study the law; selected individual is the object. His but he did not find it necessary to acquaintance with the history of his practise that profession. His incli- native country is displayed in the nations leading him into another supposed Memoirs of Captain Rock; course, he devoted himself to poetry and his satirical asperity is as conspiand elegant literature. His transla- cuous in that work, as in the account tion of Anacreon, published before he of the Fudge family. had completed his twenty-first year, But of all his works, the one which evinced his learning and talent; and it we think most worthy of his genius was soon followed by a volume of and reputation, and which will be a




durable monument to his fame, is standing side by side, and pleasure « The Epicurean," published in 1827. and death keeping hourly watch upon Although written in prose, this is a each other." The design is simple, poem, and a masterly poem, alike and exhibits no remarkable mechanivalued for its lustre and its purity. cal ingenuity ; but it is executed with The style has all the liveliness which a flowing pencil, and in warm and usually marks his compositions, and brilliant colors. There is no straining abounds in those sparkling illustra- after vehemence and sublimity; but tions which give animation to his poe- there is throughout, abundance of tic prose.

Take, for example, some poetical thought and imagery, grace, at random,—" fountains and lakes, in refinement and pathos. alternate motion and repose, either The chief features of Mr. Moore's wantonly courting the verdure, or poetry are grace and tenderness ; yet calmly sleeping in its embrace,” he is not deficient in animation or in “ though melancholy, as usual, stood force. He seems to pour forth his always near, her shadow fell but half- whole soul when be treats of the enway over my vagrant path, and left chanting passion of love ; and, if the the rest more welcomely brilliant froin other feelings of the heart are not so the contrast,"2"I could distinguish well delineated by him, he at least some female tones, towering high and touches them with an elegant pencil. clear over all the rest, and forming He may be styled the minstrel of the the spire, as it were, into which the day; for he is at once a poet, singharmony lessened as it rose,"_“I er, composer, and instrumental persaw the love-bower and the tomb former.


“ Come, let us stray Where Chance or Fancy leads our roving walk.”


a dim prospect of the weary caravan, THERE are few spots of earth visited that creeps like a centipede across the by the traveller calculated to excite plain, or winds amidst the mazes of emotions more melancholy than those distant hills. There are few scattered experienced by such as have passed hamlets, and no straggling abodes of over even the most frequented por- mankind; danger and apprehension tions of Asia Minor. Except in the have forced the remnant of its inhaimmediate vicinity of its cities, he bitants to herd together in towns for encounters few traces of life or civili- mutual security, and to leave the dezation; all beyond is " barren and un- serted country to the bandit and the profitable ;" his path lies across plains beast of prey. The wandering pastenanted hy the stork and the jackal, senger pursues his listless route suror over hills whence the eye wanders rounded by privations and difficulties, along valleys, blooming in all the by fatigue and apprehension, few beatluxuriousness of neglected nature, or en tracks to guide his course, and few withering in loneliness and sterility. hospitable mansions to shelter his Throughout lands once adorned with weariness. By night he rests beside the brightest efforts of genius and of his camel in the karavan-serai ; and art, and rise with the bustle and acti- by day he hurries along with no comvity of a crowded population, his foot- forts save those which he carries with step will light upon nothing save the him, and no companions but his speaking monuments of decay, and thoughts. But these are sufficient, his eye meet no living forms except and they spring up with every breath those of his companions, or by chance and at every turning : his very loneli

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