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one of these. We do not think we shall ever die.

This is a latent hope in the breast of many, who are afraid almost to own that they cherish it;-with us, it is a positive conviction, which we frankly avow. Many people will smile at this; but their great-grand-children, in the year 1929, will begin to attach some credit to our assertion. Meanwhile, intense is the interest we take in all the passing concerns of our day and generation. Sometimes, it is true, we look back with a pensive sorrow on hours that have flown for ever; we think of friends who will never meet again in the same happy circles,-of voices, the witching music of whose tones is hushed, and of smiles, whose gentle moonlight is gone; we think of summer months that glided by like rivers ambling to the sea; we think of one, whose name we breathe not, even in the dead hush of midnight, but whose memory sleeps, undimmed and pure as a sunless well, far down in our heart; we think of all that men think of when they look | back on youth, its quick delicious tears and flushings of wild joy. But we sorrow not as those who have no hope; time flings new flowers around us, and what is still better, we are as prepared to enjoy their odours and their hues as we were when we first bounded, like the young fawn, up the mountain side and gathered them in handfuls. There is a charm for us in every thing. We abjure that morbid sensibility which is constantly seeking for strong and coarse excitement, and complaining of the monotony of pleasure. The simplest sights and sounds of nature pass into the feeling heart, and easily awaken its fervour. The dew of heaven falls every night into the bell of the flower, and every night does the flower envelope its welcome visit ant with the sweetness of its perfume. If the dew and the odour be inexhaustible, why should the heart of man, for whom the dew and the odour of all nature are poured forth, ever turn away from the rich offering with callous indifference? Can it be possible that music should so soon pall on the dull ear? Do the essence and the elements of poetry so soon mingle with the common dust? Up, and rouse thee from thy lethargy! Why should the child have a clearer eye, or a merrier voice, than thou? Nature can never be worn out, the soul suffers not by the attrition of what is material,—why should friendship-Dr Brewster and Professor Jamieson. die? why should love grow old?

that we keep a watch upon their proceedings, and that we read them all. How many a man of genius has said to himself in his closet," I am committing to paper thoughts and sentiments which could be appreciated by some, yet I shall never learn whether they meet the eyes of that select few,-I shall never learn whether they excite emotions in a kindred bosom similar to those they have already made to throb in mine,-I shall never learn whether I am pouring forth my melodies upon the desert air, or into the delicate shrine of the human heart." And in days past the man of genius may have spoken truly; but let him speak so no more. He may be neglected or misunderstood by all the world, but he shall be attended to and appreciated by Us. It is all one how or where he publishes his lucubrations ;-if in a separate volume, we see every book that issues from the Scottish press, and almost every book that comes from the English ;—if he print in a periodical, that we must meet with him for a certainty, we shall easily convince him, if he will do us the favour to step into our study any day we happen to have on our SLIPPERS. He will there find one large table entirely covered with the latest numbers of the periodicals of all Europe. He might express surprise, perhaps, how we were able to read so much; and we should be surprised ourselves, did we not read as no common man reads ;-how we do read, it is unnecessary to explain; the fact is enough, that we know every thing.

It is particularly necessary for us to cherish enlivening reflections like these, when we consider that the situation which we now hold makes us at this moment one of the most important atoms in creation. All the world knows that we are the most essential part and parcel of the existing literature of the country. There would be more a-do than ever there was about the lost Pleiad, were we suddenly to disappear. Good God! only suppose that a Saturday morning came, and no LITERARY JOURNAL! What a breathless panic would spread over all the land! The duties of public, and the comforts of domestic life, would instantly, and as if with one accord, be neglected; men would gather together in crowds, and there would be hurried questionings and slow replies, and doubt, and gloom, and madness, and crime, and infidelity, and despair, and death! Never shall such a calamity happen I whilst we have breath. Yet, let it not be supposed, that though we have a becoming knowledge of our own importance, we are blind to the merits of our contemporaries. With the works of all of them-with the whole periodical literature of Great Britain and Ireland-from the merest penny brochure up to the largest and most costly publication-we are intimately and continuously acquainted. All the lucubrations of our literary brethren we have deeply studied,—we know their bearings and their course, their colours and their cargo, their tonnage and their strength; and, like one of the ships of a magnificent armada sailing down a great river, we bear them company as we float onward to the ocean of eternity. When we may reach that common goal, no mortal knows; but, in the meantime, it must be a comfort to such of the present age as have engaged in the same career with ourselves, to know

It is worthy of notice, how many of the best periodicals at present in existence are edited by Scotchmen. There are, in the first place, our two leading Reviews, the Quarterly, edited by Mr Lockhart, and the Edinburgh, edited first by Mr Jeffrey, and now by Mr Napier. Then there are the two Foreign Quarterly Reviews, edited, the one by Mr Gillies, and the other by Mr Fraser, both Scotchmen. Then come the Magazines, and first of all Blackwood's, the sheet-anchor of which is our countryman Professor Wilson,-then the New Monthly, at the head of which is Campbell the poet, and then Sharpe's London Magazine, started and supported by Allan Cunningham. Then we have our two Philosophical Journals, under the auspices of two Scotchmen eminent in science

If we next

turn to the weekly publications, we have the Literary Gazette, so popular both in London and out of it, edited by Mr Jerdan, (whose brother edits the Kelso Mail,)— we have the Atlas, the largest paper in England, edited by Mr Bell; and we have the Spectator, edited by Mr Rintoul. As to the newspapers, they are too numerous to particularize; but is there not Mr Stoddart of the Times, Mr Stewart of the Courier, and Mr Alexander of the Morning Journal-three of the most influential of any published in the metropolis? Many other Scotch editors are scattered over England, whilst we are not aware of a single English editor in Scotland. In a most especial manner are we proud to know, that the LITERARY JOURNAL is edited by a Scotchman-one who wears his country" in his heart's core, yea, in his heart of hearts," and who thinks with William Tell, that he

"Who does not love his native land, loves nothing."

Let it not, however, be supposed, that we are so narrow-minded as to be able to see no excellence beyond the Tweed. On the contrary, we feel attached towards the whole human race-Negroes, Cretins, "pioneers, and all.” Editors, of all sorts and sizes, principles and denominations, we love with a most particular love. It is quite a treat to see us skimming off the cream of the Magazines at the beginning of every month,-regaling ourselves with something piquant and peppery in Blackwood, (yet without that systematic and matter-of-course admiration, which some of the newspapers are willing to sell to the worthy bibliopole for the matter of a few advertisements,) refreshing ourselves with a dip into the New Monthly, taking a peep at the beautiful creatures who smile in

the pages of La Belle Assemblée,-seeking and gaining information among the judicious contents of the Monthly Review,-laughing and feeling well pleased with Mr Baylis and his Monthly Magazine,-becoming more sedate over the Imperial Magazine, and the Morning Watch, —and, finally, recalling many of our military adventures and naval reminiscences (for we have seen some service both by land and sea) over the clever lucubrations of the Naval and Military Magazine. As to our "native Caledonia," we of course read most religiously its two Philosophical Journals, already mentioned, and we intend reading the third, which is to be a "Journal of Natural and Geographical Science," as soon as it appears,—we read also its one Review,—we read its three Magazines -Blackwood's, the New Scots, and the Elgin Magazine, --and we read, without a single exception, all its newspapers. We are just as well acquainted with the most Southern newspaper published in Scotland-which is M'Diarmid's Dumfries Courier-and an excellent paper it is as we are with the most northern, which is the Inverness Courier, edited by our able friend and contributor Mr Robert Carruthers. In like manner, from Berwick to Ayr is with us a single step; and both the Berwick Advertiser and Mr M'Cormack's Ayr Advertiser have at this very moment been brought to us by our servant. Looking at the Edinburgh newspapers, it is impossible to say whether we like most the bold energy and strong thinking of the Mercury, as edited by Dr Browne, the admirable judgment and gentlemanly taste of the Observer, as edited by Mr Sutherland, the careful selections and sound taste of the Weekly Journal, as edited by Mr James Ballantyne, the philosophical spirit and political acumen of the Scotsman, as edited by Messrs Ritchie and M'Laren, the stanch principles and varied interest of the Evening Post, as edited by Messrs Crichton and Neilson, or the strict impartiality and extensive information of the Courant, as edited by Mr Buchanan. No less at home are we with the Glasgow newspapers. Mr Macqueen has no more constant reader of his Courier than we, nor Major Hunter of his Herald, nor Mr Bennet of his Free Press, nor Mr Malcolm of his Scots Times, nor Mr Prentice of his Chronicle. If we thence go down the Clyde to Paisley, we have read the Paisley Advertiser ever since it was first set a-going by Mr Kennedy, down to the present hour when it is in the hands of Mr Motherwell, and is very ably conducted by that gentleman. If we go still farther down the Clyde to Greenock, Mr Mennons and the Greenock Advertiser are old friends of ours ;-the first poetry we ever printed happened to be in the Greenock Advertiser; and this fact of itself is enough to make the paper immortal. Then, suppose we cross by a steamboat to Helensburgh, and gallop to Stirling as fast as ever a carriage and four will carry us, are we not sure to land at the Stirling Advertiser office-the Editor of which, Mr Munro, we have known from our youth upwards. Nor does a single week pass in which we omit to cast our eyes over Mr Morrison's Perth Courier, and the Fife Herald of Mr Tullis. Dundee boasts of two newspapers-the Courier, edited by Mr Hill, and the Advertiser, edited by Mr Saunders, and both of them we love much, especially their occasional criticisms upon ourselves, which are sprightly and entertaining. Mr Chalmers' Aberdeen Journal shares our favour with Mr Booth's Aberdeen Chronicle, and with the Observer; and, as we invariably read them in our SLIPPERS, the Editors may believe that we entertain the most friendly feelings towards all of them. In conclusion, though Mr Jerdan's Kelso Mail comes to us from the south, and Mr Grant's Elgin Courier and Mr Fraser's Inverness Journal, from the north, yet the contents of all the three mingle most agreeably in our mind; and when the whole is slightly seasoned with a few columns of Dr Macleod's Gaelic Messenger, we consider that we complete, in a satisfactory manner, our hebdomadal course of newspaper reading.

It is a delightful thing to read and to be pleased;-it

is a delightful thing to see, in visible characters before you, the secret souls of other men ;-it is a delightful thing to know that some great spirits are in the world along with us, whom we can understand, and who understand us,-who speculate deeply concerning human nature, and who strive with us to penetrate into the mysteries of mind, and to draw aside the veil of futurity. It may be that we labour in vain; but there is happiness in knowing that we do not labour alone or unsympathised with, and that, if we fail, we fail in company with which failure is more honourable than success would be with others. When one of those mighty minds, which we claim as the ornament of our own age, and with which we proudly link ourselves, goes out, it is like the setting of a sun. Napoleon, Shelley, Byron, Canning, was it not spirit-stirring and ennobling to live on the same earth with them?-is it not startling, melancholy, and humbling, to know that they are now a portion of the common dust over which we tread? For Heaven's sake, let us love one another while we retain the faculties which God has given us; and let us, hand in hand, press on to the prize which our honourable ambition may aim at, without the indulgence of any of those petty, but too common, feelings of envy, jealousy, and hatred, which degrade and demoralize.

For our own part, were we not of too philosophical a disposition to be easily elated, the commendations which, for the last two months, have been pouring in upon us from all quarters, and especially from the enthusiastic literati of the Continent, might well have served to render us somewhat too conscious of our own powers. We have long, however, laid it down as a rule, in conjunction with a distinguished moral philosopher of our acquaintance, to receive all praise-however extravagant-with calm delight, and all attacks—however virulent—with placid contempt, there is, therefore, less chance of our being easily driven off our legs either by the one or the other. To show our readers that we do not exaggerate the favour in which we are at present held, we shall amuse them with a few extracts from some of the foreign periodicals in which our labours have been noticed. The testimonials which Germany has sent forth are the more gratifying that having, as yet, spoken but briefly of the literary exertions of that nation, its praise cannot possibly have been purchased by any undue complaisance on our part. It was therefore with feelings of no ordinary satisfaction that we read the following passage in that arch-sentimentalist, the Abend-Zeitung :- "Wie es einem wohlthut unter dem ahnungsvollen Schatten des Buchenwaldes zu wandeln, wenn der Voll-Mond am Himmel hoch und hehr steht, sein silber-helles Licht über die sanften Wiesen hinbreitend, und jedwedes Gefühl in einer süssen Schwärmerei auflösend; so war uns zu Muthe, wie das erste Numero dieses vielgeliebten Journals vor uns emporstieg. Es sind ja Elysische Felder voll süssen Minneglücks, und ächter Ritterschaft. Sic erheben uns aus einer Kalten dürren Welt in die lieblichen Regionen der Dichterei." No less delighted, though not a little surprised, were we to learn that Professor Hegel of Berlin had informed his class" Alle Zweifel über dem Urwesen, und dem unmittelbaren Wissen sind jetzt gehoben. Das Edinburgh Literary Journal ist ein lebendiger Beweis dass Seyn und Nicht-Seyn keinesweges einerlei sind." Like some distinguished critics, who find in their favourite poet deep thoughts and hidden beauties which he never dreamt of, we fear Professor Hegel attributes to us a greater mastery over metaphysical science than we can lay claim to. His opinions, however, seem to be those entertained by the students of Jena, and there is something peculiarly energetic in the expression of the resolve come to at their last public con"Wer das Edinburgh Literary Journal nicht liest, steht ipso jure in Vers-s." But dearest to our heart of all the compliments which Germany has paid us, are the following friendly and playful hexameters by Göthe, which we received from that illustrious man about ten days ago :

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gepaaret,

Hat in der Laufbahn der Kunst, immer das Höchste erreicht."

Turning from Germany to France, we find that we are much liked by les gens de lettres of Paris. We have been unanimously elected a member of the "Academie Française," and also of the " Athenæum of Arts." In one of our letters from the celebrated M. Jouy, he is good enough to say,-" Tout ce qui part de ta plume est admirable. Il y a du brillant dans les pièces de prose et de vers qu'on trouve toujours dans votre Journal Litteraire." In the Revue Encyclopedique, a periodical of great ability, we find the following editorial notice of the LITERARY JOURNAL:-" La litterature Angloise est riche en ouvrages de cette description; mais pour les pensées ingénieuses, pour la belle moralité, pour le style élégant écrite au courant de la plume, et pour des connoissances fort étendues, il n'y a pas une feuille periodique ni à Paris ni à Londres, ou les belles lettres fleurissent à present, aussi bien distinguée que le Journal Litteraire d'Edimbourg en Ecosse."-Nor have we been overlooked either in Italy or Spain. In a Florence periodical -Il Giornale di Firenze-we find ourselves thus spoken of :—“ Questa opera ingegnosa è veramente ripiena di La cose rare e di cento mille gentilezze di tutta sorte. litteratura Inglesa ha poche pubblicazione cosi utile e desiderabile." In like manner, the editor of the Diario de Madrid, in his review of the first volume of the LITERARY JOURNAL, says ::—“ La variedad agradable que se halla en este tomo, assi de assuntos como de estilos, le hace recommendable en sumo grado a los hombres mas eruditos y curiosos."-Denmark, too, has done us justice. In that widely-circulated paper, the "Morgenbladet," the able editor thus expresses himself:-" Intet af Nutidens Værker, indaander os Fölelser af dybere Agtelse og Beundring end den Edinburgh Literary Journal."-Nor less agreeable is the praise of the celebrated Elmquist, who edits the "Aarhuus Stifts Tidende," and who says:— "Critikken, Fortællingerne, Poesien i dette fortryllende Tidsskrivt, ere af allerhöyeste Rangv-Det er derfor intet Under, at Rygtet om det, gradvis udvider sig over alle Verdens Hjörner."

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It would be easy to multiply these flattering testimonials almost ad infinitum, but we do not wish to be accused of vanity, and are anxious now to turn from our own immediate concerns, in order to do justice to a few of our innumerable correspondents. For the present, we shall not even allude to our foreign letters, though they would themselves fill a dozen JOURNALS. We prefer limiting ourselves to our oldest and best friends -the inhabitants of Scotland-who continue to write to us from every nook and corner of this happy country. Diligently do we read all their lucubrations; and, whether we print them or not, it is impossible that any of them can ever displease us. The fine, fresh glow of enthusiastic friendship which pervades the following effusion, for instance, is enough to put any editor in goodhumour for a whole week. It comes to us from the Old Commodore, whom our readers may recollect we formerly introduced to their acquaintance as one of the bravest and ablest seamen in his Majesty's service:

THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.
An Acrostic.

E very joy attend thy Journal,
Dearest friend of mine on earth;
I mmortality o'erturn all

Noisy rage and rancorous mirth ;—
Best of critics! best of papers!

Universal be thy fame;

R eviling wretches, cut your capers, Great and deathless is his name,Happy man, to start such game!

Loud and long may people praise thee;
I'm the humblest of your bards:
Tennant, Hogg, and Wilson, raise thee
E v'n beyond all power of words.
Rich and rare, and great and glorious,
A re thy shrewd remarks and notes;
Rapture seize me, thou'rt victorious!
Yo! heave round! our Thunderer floats.

I'll stand by you-fire a broadside!
Oh man, fight your very best:
Union Jack up mast high!-Odds, I'd
Roar like thunder from the west.
N ever strike, man-never waver—
At them!-at them!-braver !-braver !
Lo! they sink in ocean's breast!

Turning our eyes towards the west, or "stepping westward," as Wordsworth would say, we find that Paisley contains several poets, who have addressed us in rhyme. Our modesty forbids the publication of the compliments they have paid to us personally; but, among them, we find a song by Mr Thomas Dick, addressed to our friend the Ettrick Shepherd, whom Mr Dick seems to consider the second most illustrious person in Scotland. Mr Dick commences his letter very sensibly :-" Sir,-When I look at the array of glorious names upon your list of contributors, and reflect upon the great quantity of poetry you continually receive, I dare hardly expect you will afford room in your JOURNAL for the verses of a person' alike unknowing and unknown.' I have, however, entertained a slight hope, that if the enclosed song should be no otherwise meritorious, yet the subject of it may perhaps Should this induce you to give it a place, the please. piece will exhibit the opinion held of the Ettrick Shepherd by the humbler classes in a distant part of his native country, and the insertion of it will bestow more than an obligation upon one who has read your lucubrations with much pleasure, and, I hope, some profit." We can find room for only one or two of the first stanzas of the song:

THE SHEPHERD BARD.-A SONG.

Here's a health to Jamie, O!
Here's a health to Jamie, O!
I wadna gie our Shepherd Bard
For a' the bards ye'd gie me, O!

O' Greek and Roman bards they blaw,
Parnassus hill and Mantuan plain;
But there's a minstrel worth them a',
And that's our Ettrick Shepherd Swain.

His hearty laugh, his harmless joke, His sangs and "kintra clatter," O! Aft bind us to the ingle neuk,

But aye we rise the better, O!

Sae sweet he tunes his simple reed,

Beside his simmer shieling, O!
The heart maun e'en be waur than dead,
That canna share his feeling, O!

"So much for Buckingham!" We shall still, however, keep in the west, and take a look at the poets of Glasgow, —a rising and promising part of the brotherhood. Some good stanzas, by the author of that strong and original poem-" The Dead Man's Moan,"—which we published some time ago, present themselves first:

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The winter may fade, and the spring, array'd
In the fairest of light, appear;

But what care I though the ice should lie

On the dark earth all the year—

What to me when the warmth of the heaven descends?
My life is a winter that never ends.

Yet I do not mourn, though my heart can burn
With health and joy no more;

Nor long for the time of my springing prime,
When I was with bloom clad o'er,
Ere Death thought fit to make me a cell,
Where he and Decay, his child, might dwell.

Alone I stand, mid a fruitful band

Of trees, which enclose me round;

But I hear their wail as the lusty gale

Springs through with a careless bound

For they dread that their leaves he may scatter and tear,

I have no blossoms for which to fear.

I am for ever as firm and calm

As though silence embraced the heaven;

Nor heed though the flash of the lightning dash
O'er my crest, so black and riven:

It knows too well where to strike and blast-
It passes the tree it has shiver'd last.

'Tis morning now, and along my brow Glances the dawning day;

And it strives to wile my old front to smile

Its desolate mien away;

But I throw my shadow so broad, and blight
The flowers which it glads with its smiles of light.

The scant remains of the chill night rains
In my worn hollow branches lie,

To strengthen and cheer the bird that drops near,
Down from the sultry sky;

But woe to the bird which drinks of such dew,
My heart's bitter poison will pierce it through.

But seldom a bird 'neath my shade is heard,
Save when in some night-dream of fear,
It flutters quick through the shadows thick,
And sleeps in my branches drear,

Till the dawning of morning appears in the skies,
When it starts with a warble of strange surprise.

Seldom a bird 'neath my shade is heard,-
Too well they love the bowers
Where they gaily sing, while their downy wing
Skiffs the dew from the laughing flowers;
And what care I for their merry tone?

I for ever am silent and dark and lone.

And she did love her victim once,―

The barb was in her bosom deep;
He heeded not her burning glance;
What could she do but weep?
But soon it rankled that fierce dart,
Her blighting tears soon ceased to fall;
Each honey'd feeling of her heart
Turn'd round its core to gall.

She has betray'd him-that the bier
May join them ne'er again to part;
She knows he cannot love her here,

But Death may change the heart :
He sees her, but he turns his head
In scorn against that faithless one;
And, writhing on his iron bed,
He heaves his latest groan.

Now shatter'd is life's golden bowl,
Death's shadow o'er the ruin falls;
A heave a quiver-and his soul

Hath pass'd the dungeon walls.
That false one's wrath is now subdued,
Her dreams of hate have all departed;
Revenge is o'er; she stands at length
Alone and broken-hearted.

A moment, statue-like, and wild,
Her stony look is thrown to heaven;
A moment-then misfortune's child
Bends o'er his bosom riven.

Her arm of snow she wildly raised,
As if to point the path above;
She shook not-murmur'd not—but gazed
On her first wreck of Love.

A moment with convulsive shriek,

Her heart seem'd bursting with its swell,
As round she glanced-but could not speak-
Then on his breast she fell.

A maddening laugh-a thrilling start-
One living scream-and life is past ;—
Revenge a moment steel'd her heart-
Love triumph'd at the last.

Oh, woman is a living flower,

When opening to love's summer sighs ;-
When wrong'd-the asp in battle hour-
That, writhing, stings and dies.

Tender and jealous as the dove,

Her heart may break-but seldom change; What is more strong than woman's love, More fierce than her revenge?

We now lay our hands upon a communication from "S. S." of Glasgow, by which it appears that he was somewhat nettled at an alteration we made upon a poem we got from him some months ago, and to which we gave a place in our SLIPPERS, No. I. "S. S." is of the genus There appeareth next in order Dugald Moore, the irritabile, and we forgive him; but he ought to have author of a book we introduced to the notice of our read-known that we improved his song. We shall print his ers when it first came out, a man who has metal in present poem, with which we are well pleased, exactly as him, and is no unworthy inhabitant of Dunlop Street, Glasgow:

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we have received it :

THE STUDent.

They say I am a lonely man,
Recluse in walk and mood,
Eschewing high society

To sit in solitude;

But I have treasures hidden deep,

That wake to me when worldlings sleep.

For I have friends to look upon,

And tongues that whisper sweet,

And sounds of joyance that can give
A welcome when we meet,
More than the glance that glads the hall,
Or flares amidst the festival.

They deem me poor, or lorn, or sad,

Slave of a dreamy brain,

Which burning ever, ever thirsts,

As parched land for rain;

But there are wells of holiest thought, Where I can drink when they can not.

I long have learn'd, and prize the lore, That simplest things may be

In solitude society

In silence company;
If in the wild a flower I see,

It is no desert place to me.

Mr Brydson, already known to our readers, sent us two articles some weeks since; but we suppose he was beginning to get impatient, for the prose communication has recently made its appearance elsewhere. There is nothing more common with us, than to see articles, which had been previously offered to us and rejected, appearing with much pomp in other periodicals, whose editors are more easily satisfied. Mr Brydson, however, had not been rejected. His prose story cannot, of course, appear now in our pages, but his poem has much sweetness and grace:

THE PARTING A SCHOOL-BOY REMEMBRANCE.

By Thomas Brydson.

I tried to say and smile, "Adieu!"

But o'er my cheek the tear-drops came; The word that gave long years away

Died on my quiv'ring lip of flame :One moment-and around me were

The friends beloved since infancy; Another and alone I stood

Beneath the ev'ning sky.

The wild brook gush'd-the wild bird sang,
Deep, deep among the banks of broom;
And ev'ry breeze came wand'ring by
With melody and rich perfume:
These once could charm, because my soul
Could answer back with glee for glee;
But I seem'd fetter'd now, and sigh'd
To gaze upon the free.

'Tis long ago;-and when I think

How sadden'd oft my heart hath been,
Since in my voiceless woe I stood

Alone amid that school-boy scene,
The same deep fount of feeling swells,-
Again burst forth the burning tears;
But ah! no spot of earth can please—
I mourn o'er future years.

We shall go down by one of the steam-boats from Glasgow to Greenock, and there we are sure of something from a poet of no mean powers. Behold

YOUNG LOVE.-A SONNET.

Who would not be a truant from the schools,
To learn in secret from those am'rous eyes?
Who would not steal from dull discretion's rules,
With thee to share what plodding life denies ?
And cast grave looks aside for tender sighs?.

And wasting thoughts for thrillings of delight?
And tedious questionings for love's replies?

And morning's glare for this voluptuous night? The whispering leaves around us, and the mild, The dreamy lustre of yon moon's pale brow, Never to musing fancy's lonely child

Imparted ecstasy like that which now They breathe o'er us, or wisdom so divine As that I study on those lips of thine!

"How fleet is a glance of the mind." From Greenock we all at once transport ourselves to Innerleithen, where we find Mr Deans, a very modest poet, who never pub

lished any thing in his life except in the Newcastle Magazine, but who has a good deal of genius about him, as witness the following effusion :

A VERY AUNCIENT BALLAD.

"Whae's graff is that, thou bedral man,
Ye're houkin' sae wide an' deep?
Whae's graff is that, thou bedral man,
An' whae's corpse is it to keep?"

"O this is a graff for the howdie wife,
That's dead i' the burrow town;
An' we're houkin' sae deep, her corpse to keep
Frae the clutch o' Cadger Brown.

"For he canna content him, Cadger Brown,
Wi' the gains o' a lawful trade;

But the fause auld knave maun come to the grave To harry the dead man's bed.

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