father with a word and a look that kindled all present. 'Son and heir of Airnaumery,' said he, with a deep and slow voice, mark my words. That shrouded clay has made ye lord of gold, yellow beaten gold-houses warm and many-and lands broad and wide that gold, those houses, and those lands, were gathered and gotten in a way of which God will require an account-be kind to the widow, the orphan, the hungry heart, and the houseless head-and who knows but the curse that clings to your name may be suspended-it can never be removed.' On my father glowered-ye have no English word to match that-the hopeful heir with eyes gray and covetous, opened wide and large, and a mouth much opener, motionless as a statue-choked with anger-and unable to speak. Not so the Gudeman of the Drum-a hot Episcopalian-a neighbour southern to boot-a near neighbour to Airnaumery's; and one, beside, who prided himself in having by heart the very prayer that Archbishop Sharpe prayed when he turned his coat on the covenant; a dangerous gift to bring into the lists against a Cameronian. Up he starts to my father, and said,sit you down, ye doited covenanter, your words have no weight at all;' and, with something between a stroke and a push, he put his predecessor aside, and commenced the prayer, distinguished by the name of the Bishop's prayer, with strong and peculiar emphasis. My father's glance grew dark as death-his ordinary wrath was of a red colour-the cause of his anger was doubtless great. To be bearded in prayer, where he had never found his match-that, too, by an Episcopalian-to be smitten on the cheek and over the banner of the covenant to have the twice turned coat of the great apostate hung waving and triumphant-tell it not in Gath. So up rose my father's round neeve, and down went the Gudeman of the Drum with the coffined defunct on the top of him. There lay he on the floor the mortcloth of fringed black velvet VOL. VI. that covered the coffin now covered him, and ere he arose, a decanter of wine, blood red as it happened, was spilt about him. He was helped to his feet, and as he disencumbered himself of the untimely garment, down gushed from the stem of his bonnet a spoonful of wine o'er cheek and chin-he thought it life's blood at least-yelled, with pure dismay, till roof and rafter rung-and home he ran howling for help, and all the dogs of the gate-end barking in full chorus after him. "It was in the evening of this eventful day that I returned from a singingschool, knowing nothing of my father's adventures-and I found him preparing to take the book ;-I joined as usual in the psalm-my father taking the lead, and reciting the verse. Unfortunately the parish precentor had framed the compass of my voice, and I scrupled not to give my fatherill-prepared as he was for a renewal of any kind of competition-a sample of my might in psalmody. Though the tune was Stroudwater, and the psalm was the eighth-prime favourites of my father, and ever since, chief favourites of mine-he got small share of them; I overcame and drowned his voice entirely. My mother saw my danger, and with many a warning look and wink, sought to repress my ill-timed rivalry. I mistook her signs, and my voice waxed stronger and stronger. My mother saw the look of my father change, and she said, Oh Mark, my bonny bairn, dinna take the word out of your auld father's mouth.' My father, with his very darkest look, said, never mind him, Marion; just never mind him ;-by the seven seals of the covenant, I'll break his voice for him!' so saying, he commenced the hundred and nineteenth psalm, to the roaring tune of the Bangor, and we sung it from end to end: my voice was still unbroken and triumphant, so I had to fly from the face of my father, and with a sixpence in my pocket, a shirt, and years 6 sweet seventeen' on my back, I forsook the roof of my home, and began my wanderings." (To be continued.) 3 U THERE is a small cloud in the sky, A gentle breathing air is out, With lonely sound it grieves; It bends the grass, it plays about The inside of the leaves. It stirs the surface of the lake, In wrinkles bending far, The flowers of spring are beautiful, No doubts to check, no fears to dim The playfulness, the pride of heart, As seasons journeyed by MUSINGS. Were quenched, and youth came to impart And passions, that without a wing, But thou the princess wert of all, What marvel, then, that I should be That I should leave the world, and flee Long years have past-and hope, and grief, I since have found, make up the brief, And for an hour-an evening hour Of rural solitude, I come to view the field and flower, And stand, where I have stood! Like gushing rills, a thousand thoughts O'erpower my sinking mind; Within my heart, the well known spots Their pictured image find. And dreams, that have been long subdued, Dim shadows o'er my bosom brood, With her, who was the source of bliss, I see her smiles-I list her words- I hear from yonder tree! The hills, the fields, the woods, the sky, They are not altered to the eye, But yet, methinks, my soul could share Ah! no-my bosom could not melt And holier far the thoughts must be And dreams of past existence bright A double charm impart, "They are like rainbows to the sight, And lessons to the heart. SABBATH NOON. THE bell's sonorous chime hath died away A vacancy inducing pleasing thoughts, A silence, where no troublous dreams obscure, Have power to enter. Placid is the sky, More deeply green the forests, through whose boughs Running towards the sea-the glowing sea, That spreads its waveless breast, whereon the ships The tribes of lower nature, even the mass Yea, even this verdant mound, whereon I rest The glories of the universal world, The beauties shower'd around them-hearts to feel The tenderness of passion, all the joys That life in its relationships affords: And lofty souls, which, when this frame of clay, Melting, shall pass away, and be no more, Shall taste the glories of undying youth, Oh! holy is the noon of sabbath day, Embalmed in Recollection's silent eye For such a scene, exiled, and banished far, Our life is but a journey. Happy eves! The crimson of your sunshine on the hills, THE AURORA BOREALIS.-A SONNET. 'Tis midnight; and the world is hushed in sleep: Sure spirits are abroad! Behold the north Sterts to his lattice, and beholds in fear, Noiseless, the fiery legions thronging fast, Portending rapine and rebellion near: For well he knows that dark futurity Throws forward fiery shadows on the sky! GREECE.A SONNET. LAND of the muses, and of mighty men! In ecstasy, and wist not where to stray.- Hath quenched the embers of the holy fane; Thy temples now are crumbling to the plain, For time hath sapped, and man hath helped the work. All cannot perish-thy immortal mind Remains a halo circling round mankind. HORE GERMANICE. No IV. [We have been prevented from giving our promised analysis of one of Oehlenchläger's tragedies this month: but shall certainly redeem our pledge in next Number. The following article consists of a translation of one of the short tales of the Baroness de la Motte Fouqué-a lady whose compositions, both in verse and prose, enjoy, at present, great popularity all over Germany. She is the wife of that Baron de la Motte Fouqué whose beautiful story of UNDINE has been translated into English-and whose MAGIC-RING, WaldeMAR the PILGRIM, and EGINHARD and EMMA, ought all to be translated immediately. We hope soon to make our readers better acquainted with the genius both of husband and of wife, The French sound of their name may surprise our readers: but, we believe, the fact is, that the present Baron de la Motte Fouqué is the lineal representative of a Huguenot nobleman, who left France at the period of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, and acquired considerable estates in the Prussian dominions. Many villages, and even whole towns, in the western parts of old Prussia, are almost entirely inhabited by the descendants of these French refugees, among whom the language of their forefathers is still spoken. The Baron, however, writes in German-and few authors of his day write more purely or more energetically. His lady is, we believe, of a Saxon family of high distinction. The Cypress Crown, a Tale. By the BARONESS, CAROLINE DE LA MOTTE FOUQUEʼ. THE promises of peace, which for many months had been depending, came at last to be fulfilled. The army returned home; with seriousness and solemnity they entered once more the liberated and wonderfully rescued capital. It was a Sunday morning. Since day-break, young and old had been pressing through the streets towards the gates. The guards could with difficulty keep any degree of authority in the storm of unrestrained and irresistible joy. Crowded, squeezed, and as it were, twined and twisted through each other, stood this expectant assembly; and as the wished for moment approached, became the more deeply and inwardly affected. There was scarcely a sound audible in the multitude, when at last the powerful yet melancholy voice of the trumpets gave their first greeting from afar. Then tears fell from a thousand eyes; many a breaking heart was chilled; and on the lips of all, low and anxious whispers trembled. Now shone the first gleams of armour through the open gates.-Scattered flowers and garlands flew to meet them; for every tree had paid its tribute; every garden had granted a share from its variegated treasures. A love ly child, stationed in an high bowwindow, raised its round white arms on high, and receiving from its weeping, turned-away mother, a coronet of leaves, threw it down among the passing troops beneath. A lancer, who happened to be the first to notice this occurrence, good-humouredly took up the wreath on his lance, while he playfully nodded to the fair little angel above. He had his eyes still directed in this manner, when his commanding officer, riding on, exclaimed, “Ha! Wolfe!-a cypress wreath! How came you by such a thing-it may thought an unlucky omen!" Wolfe put the crown on his right arm, however, and not without some discomposure rode on! be After a long tedious delay, employed in putting up the horses in the regimental stables, giving them water and provender, the quarter-billets at last were distributed. Wolfe, on receiving his ticket, had the mortification to perceive that it directed him to the house of a well-known rich butcher! His comrades wished him joy-rallied him on the good eating which awaited him; and profited by the opportunity to invite themselves frequently to become his guests. He, meanwhile, took |