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'Tis night-and in darkness the visions of youth

Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind : The hope they excited hath perished, and truth

Laments o'er the wrecks they are leaving behind. 'Tis midnight and wide o'er the regions of riot

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose ; And man, soothed from revel, and lulled into quiet,

Forgets in his slumbers the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven,

Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest ! Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,

To omen a something like hope to the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind uptosses the forest !

A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals ; But, ah ! 'tis the tempest of fortune that sorest

The bosom of man in his solitude feels !

Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust,

Whose bosoms with mutual affection did burn ? Alas ! they have gone to their homes in the dust,

The grass rustles drearily over their urn : While I, in a populous solitude, languish

'Mid foes that beset me, and friends that are cold : Ah ! the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish,

That the heart may be widowed before it is old !

Affection can sooth but its vótaries an hoar,

Doomed soon in the flames that it raised to depart; And, ah ! disappointment has poison and power

To ruffle and sour the most patient of heart. Too oft 'neath the barb-pointed arrows of malice,

Has merit been destined to bear and to bleed ; And they, who of pleasure have emptied the chalice,

Have found that the dregs were full bitter indeed.

Let the storms of adversity lour ; 'tis in vain,

Though friends should forsake me, and foes should combine; Such may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain,

They only can teach resignation to mine:
For, far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming,

The spirit beholds a less perishing span ;
And bright through the tempest the rainbow is streaming,

The sign of forgiveness from Heaven to man !

EXTRACT FROM PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

BY HENRY TAYLOR,

Adriana.

Oh, Artevelde ;
What change hath come since morning! Oh! how soon
The words and looks which seem'd all confidence,
To me at least-how soon are they recalled!
But let them bemit matters not; I, too,
Will cast no look behind-Oh, if I should,
My heart would never hold its wretchedness.

Artevelde. My gentle Adriana, you run wild
In false conjectures ; hear me to the end.
If hitherto we have not said we loved,
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love
By all the tokens wherein love delights.
We heretofore have trusted in each other.
Too wholly have we trusted to have need
Of words or vows, pledges or protestations.
Let not such trust be hastily dissolved.

Adri. I trusted not. I hoped that I was loved,
Hoped and despair'd, doubted and hoped again,
Till this day, when I first breathed freelier,
Daring to trust--and now-Oh God, my heart !
It was not made to bear this agony-
Tell me you love me, or you love me not.

Artev. I love thee, dearest, with as large a love
As e'er was compassed in the breast of man.
Hide then those tears, beloved, where thou wilt,
And find a resting-place for that so wild

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And troubled heart of thine ; sustain it here,
And be its flood of passion wept away.

Adri. What was it that you said then ? If you love,
Why have you thus tormented me ?
Artev.

Be calm ;
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fixed,
What fate thou may'st be wedded to with me.
Thou hast beheld me living heretofore
As one retired in staid tranquillity :
The dweller in the mountains, on whose ear
The accustom'd cataract thunders unobserv'd ;
The seaman who sleeps sound upon the deck,
Nor hears the loud lamenting of the blast,
Nor heeds the weltering of the plangent wave,-
These have not lived more undisturb'd than I:
But build not upon this; the swollen stream
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer,
And drive him forth; the seaman roused, at length
Leaps from his slumber on the wave-wash'd deck ;-
And now the time comes fast when here in Ghent
He who would live exempt from injuries
Of armed men, must be himself in arms.
This time is near for all,-nearer for me :
I will not wait upon necessity,
And leave myself no choice of vantage ground,
But rather meet the times where best I may,
And mould and fashion them as best I can.
Reflect, then, that I soon may be embark'd
In all the hazards of these troublesome times,
And in your own free choice take or resign me."

Adri. Oh Artevelde, my choice is free no more.
Be mine, all mine, let good or ill betide.
In war or peace, in sickness or in health,
In trouble and in danger and distress,
Through time and through eternity I'll love thee;
In youth and age, in life and death I'll love thee,
Here and hereafter, with all my soul and strength.
So God accept me as I never cease
From loving and adoring thee next Him :
And oh, may He pardon me if so betray'd
By mortal frailty as to love thee more.

Artev. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash
And passionate resolve that thou hast made ;
But how should I admonish thee, myself
So great a winner by thy desperate play.
Heaven is o'er all, and unto Heaven I leave it.
That which hath made me weak shall make me strong,
Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love;
And if some tax thou payest for that love,
Thou shalt receive it back from Love's exchequer.

Farewell ; 'tis late ; I'm waited for ere this.
Adri. Upon this finger be the first tax raised.

[Draws off a ring, which she gives kim. Now what shall I receive ? Artev.

The like from mine.
I had forgotten-I have it not to-day :
But in its stead wear this around thy neck.
And now, my Adriana, my betrothed,
Give Love a good night's rest within thy heart,
And bid him wake to-morrow, calm and strong.

SONG,

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.
The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lavrock's in the sky,
And Colley in my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
I hear no welcome sound,
The shadow of our trysting bush,

It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,

My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,

And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Luckey scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
These are nae sounds for me ;
The shadow of our trysting bush,

It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,

A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow!

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The time it winna pass :

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Of the crowd of admirable writers, male and female, in the three kingdoms, whose numbers have enriched the literature of the present century, our concluding paragraph can afford room for the names of very few ; we must omit many probably equal, or perhaps superior, in merit to those mentioned, and to some of those we have selected.

William Gifford ; Dr J. Wolcot (Peter Pindar); Rev. William Lisle Bowles ; Edwin Atherstone (“ Nineveh"); Leigh Hunt ; Bernard Barton ; Rev. George Croly ; Thomas Pringle ; Ebenezer Elliot (Corn Law Rhymes ;) Hartley Coleridge, the late son of S. T. Coleridge ; J. Sterling (“ The Sexton") —he is the Archeus of the Noctes in Blackwood's Magazine ; W. M. Milnes ; Alaric Watts and Mrs Watts ; William and Mary Howitt ; Thomas Aird ; Miss Blamire ; Mrs Barbauld ; Miss Seward ; Mrs Opie ; Mrs Tighe (“ Psyche"); Mrs Norton ; Miss Caroline Bowles, afterwards Mrs Southey ; Miss Elizabeth B. Barrett ; Eliza Cook ; Miss Frances Brown, &c. The writers who have cultivated the language of Scotland are also numerous :-Alexander Wilson (the ornithologist, originally a Paisley weaver); Robert Tannahill, also a native of Paisley ; Hector Macneil (“ Will and Jean"); John Mayne (“ Logan Braes," &c.); Sir Alexander Boswell, the son of Johnson's Boswell (* Jenny dang the Weaver," &c.); the late William Tennant, Professor of Hebrew in the University of St Andrews (" Anster Fair”); William Motherwell ; Robert Nicol ; James Ballantine (poems and songs, interspersed in the “ Gaberlunzie's Wallet” and the “ Miller of Deanhaugh"); Robert Gilfillan ; William Thom, the hand-loom weaver, of Inverury, whose recent death in poverty and neglect has been made the subject of reproach against Scotland ; David Vedder ; Alexander Maclagan, &c.

The Dramatists of the conclusion of the eighteenth, and of the present century, are Joanna Baillie (Plays of the Passions) ; Matthew Gregory

Miss Mitford ; Mrs Inchbald ; Thomas Morton ; George Colman (the

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