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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,
In peace it sails along;
Upon the chesnut tree on high
The linnet sings its song.

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,
Until the marge they gain, and break
Where water lilies are.

The flowers of spring are beautiful,
And well their sight may cast
Before our visions, fresh and full,
The memory of the past.
The spirit alters: ne'er again
Will life restore the hours
Of innocence, when, free from pain,
Our day was like the flowers!

No doubts to check, no fears to dim
Our cloudless destiny;
Like little barks, 'twas ours to swim
Upon a summer sea.

The playfulness, the pride of heart,

As seasons journeyed by

MUSINGS.

Were quenched, and youth came to impart
More thoughtfulness of eye.

And passions, that without a wing,
Lay sleeping in their cells,
Came forth, as, at the touch of spring,
The dewy buds and bells.

But thou the princess wert of all,
Delicious, holy love,
Adored in cot, and palace hall,
In city, and in grove.

What marvel, then, that I should be
A worshipper of thine?

That I should leave the world, and flee
To kneel before thy shrine!

Long years have past-and hope, and grief,
And fear, and doubt, and strife,

I since have found, make up the brief,
And clouded span of life.

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,
In fair succession rise;

Dim shadows o'er my bosom brood,
And tears bedim mine eyes.

With her, who was the source of bliss,
I never else had found,
'Twas heaven, on such an eve as this,
To tread this very ground!

I see her smiles-I list her words-
Her winning looks I see;
The very music of the birds

I hear from yonder tree!
"Tis well the brightest things of earth
Are half with shade o'ercast;
I could not wish my present mirth
To emulate the past.

The hills, the fields, the woods, the sky,
Are fair, as fair can be ;

They are not altered to the eye,
The change pertains to me.

But yet, methinks, my soul could share
The glories of the scene;
My heart its vanish'd frame repair,
And be what it hath been!

Ah! no-my bosom could not melt
With thoughts, that once had moved;
We cannot feel, as we have felt;
Nor love as we have loved!

And holier far the thoughts must be
Of things, whose relics sleep
In silence, 'neath the whelming sea,
Than such as sail the deep.
The weeds that rustle o'er the grave,
When evening lowers around,
Tongues-language more persuasive have,
Than any living sound.

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
Upon the slumbering air; earth, heaven, are still,
As the deep unbreathing quiet of the tomb;
But yet it is a pause of harmony,

A vacancy inducing pleasing thoughts,

A silence, where no troublous dreams obscure,
That unto pleasure owe not origin,

Have power to enter. Placid is the sky,
Though not unclouded-verdant are the fields,
In summer robe luxuriant-green the hills-

More deeply green the forests, through whose boughs
Brightly the river glistens in the sun,

Running towards the sea-the glowing sea,

That spreads its waveless breast, whereon the ships
Lie moveless; cables, masts, and furled shrouds
Thro' the clear atmosphere distinctly seen.

The tribes of lower nature, even the mass
Of this material world,-rocks, hills, and vales,
Forests and rivers, seem to understand
Or feel the influence of this holy day.
All strife is hushed: at frequent intervals
A gushing music wakens in the air
From tiny bills unseen ; upon the bough
Of lofty beech tree, calm the raven sits
Inactive, with bright eye, and glossy wing:
The linnet, swinging on the topmost bough
Of bloomy furze, is silent; and the bee,
Languidly humming on from flower to flower,
Seems making music of its daily toil:-

Yea, even this verdant mound, whereon I rest
With meditative volume, seems to feel,-
Op'ning its bells and daisies to the sun,—
A kind of silent, tranquil happiness,
Which may be deep, although it speaketh not.
Over the summit of the dark green trees,
Stretching aloft, the rural church's spire,
O'ertopp'd by glittering vane, is clearly seen,
Amid the pure, clear atmosphere: within
The habitants of all the hamlets round,
Parents and children, youth and hoary eld,
Decent, decked out in holiday attire,
Lift up the tribute of devoted hearts,
The best-the holiest of all offerings,
To Him, the great Creator of them all,
Who gave them life and being-eyes to see

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,
And in its immortality be strong.

Oh! holy is the noon of sabbath day,
Unbreathing;--holier still its purple eve;
What time above the hills the western sun
Shoots his long rays aslant; and, in the wave,
The elm trees throw their sombrous shadows far.

Embalmed in Recollection's silent eye
Are many evenings such, more sweet, more soft,
More richly beautiful, than ever more,
-While being lights its sublunary lamp-
Shall bless this heart of mine. Thro' yellow fields,
Green forests, and by gleaming waters blue,
With those whom fate or friendship linked to me,
Tell I the bliss of wandering; every thought
For such a season uncongenial,

For such a scene, exiled, and banished far,
No earthly care to damp the joyous heart,
In innocent mirth exulting, or destroy
Visions of glory that can never be !

Our life is but a journey. Happy eves!
Ye ne'er can be forgotten!-twined with youth
In glorious recollection, ye arise;

The crimson of your sunshine on the hills,
Your forests green, and waveless waters blue;
And holier still, and lovelier, feelings warm,
That now are scarcely felt, and lofty hopes,
That, like a rainbow, from the summer sky
Have passed away, and left no trace behind.

THE AURORA BOREALIS.-A SONNET.

'Tis midnight; and the world is hushed in sleep:
Distant and dim the southern mountains lie;
The stars are sparkling in the cloudless sky;
And hollow murmurs issue from the deep,
Which, like a mother, sings unto its isles.

Sure spirits are abroad! Behold the north
Like a volcano glows; and, starting forth,
Red streaks like Egypt's pyramids in files-
Lo! Superstition, pallid and aghast,

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!
A shadowy grandeur mantles thee; serene
As morning skies, thy pictur'd realms are seen,
When ether's canopy is clear, and when
The very zephyrs pause upon the wing

In ecstasy, and wist not where to stray.-
Beautiful Greece! more glorious in decay
Than other regions in the flush of spring:
Thy palaces are tenantless ;-the Turk

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!

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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

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