VI.

'Tis this that makes me banish thoughts of rest,
Tho' nature seems so lovely, so sercne :
High aspirations rise within my breast,

High thoughts of all who on this earth have been
Good, great and glorious: and the glittering sheen
Of Heaven attracts my soul to realms on high:
For gazing on so soft and fair a scene,

My soul doth long for angels' wings to fly,
And mingle with the radiance of the glowing sky.

V.

I know that labour is our lot below;

And rather would I be yon ocean-wave,
Which restless night and day must onward flow,
Now lashed by all the winds which fiercely rave,
Now moaning in some rocky ocean cave:
Than yon fair stream, which slowly gliding down
Unheard it's flowery banks doth idly lave,

Till the vast sea it's little waves doth drown,
Which straightway lose all name, existence, and renown.

VI.

But now the night is calm, the moon's mild light
Softens the outline of each rugged hill:
No sounds are heard save such as give delight;
The whisp'ring woods, the sea, the falling rill-
What need at such an hour to think of ill,
When all seems happy, beautiful, and calm ?
Come then soft Night, thro' all my being thrill!

My soul shall feel nor sorrow or alarm,

Tho' storms may mar ere morn the night's sweet soothing charm.

VII.

On such a night as this Endymion woke,

To hear the pale moon tell her tale of love:

On such a night as this Anchises spoke,

Nor could the Queen of Love his suit reprove:

For such a night towards Earth kind Heaven doth move,
Which weeps for us with all it's "starry eyes,"
And lends it's light in pity from above,

To brighten this dark earth, this earth of sighs,
Where sin and sorrow reign, whence misery never flies.

VIII.

O lovely night! soother of mortal woe,
What tho' thou art the time of empty dreams,
Of hopes and joys which soon we must forego,
Yet thro' thy misty veil upon us gleams

Heaven's light, or all that to us heavenly seems.
Let me dream on while Heaven doth seem so nigh;

Far from the wild world's fears, cares, hopes and schemes. I'll picture mansions in yon glowing sky, Wherein Pain cannot live, and Joy can never die.

IX.

Familiar faces hover in the air:
Familiar voices whisper in my ear,
Now rising dusky from the mountain bare,
Now shining on me from the moonbeams clear,
They whisper words man's lonely lot to cheer:
That life hath something else than woe and pain:
That all below is not dull dark and drear,
But that the light of Heaven doth ofttimes deign
On the dark spots of earth its radiant floods to rain.

+

MY FAVOURITE SCOTCH VILLAGE.

"Labour, Art, Worship, Love, these make man's life:
How sweet to spend it here! Beautiful dale,
What time the virgin favour of the Spring
Bursts in young lilies, they are first in thee;
Thine lavish Summer lush of luminous green,
And Autumn glad upon thy golden crofts.
Let Winter come: on January morn,
Down your long reach, how soul-inspiriting,
Far in the frosty yellow of the East,
To see the flaming horses of the Sun

Come galloping up on the uptrodden year!

If storm-flaws more prevail, hail, crusted snows,

And blue-white thaws upon the spotty hills,

With dun swollen floods, they pass and hurt thee not;
They but enlarge, with sympathetic change,

The thoughtful issues of thy dwellers' hearts.

Here, happy thus, far from the scarlet sins,

From bribes, from violent ways, the anxious mart
Of money-changers, and the strife of tongues,
Fearing no harm of plague, no evil star
Bearded with wrath, his spirit finely touched
To life's true harmonies, old Sylvan dwells,

Deep in the bosom of his native vale."

The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird. 4th Edition.

I. Why we Write about it.

YEAR by year, ever since the early time when I was carried thither in long clothes, without my consent being asked or cared for, I have found myself returning to Scotland. On these occasions my head quarters have generally been the " gray metropolis of the North," but Perthshire and Dumfries have often yielded a temporary home. All honour to the dear old country. In her wild hills and simple worship, her gravity of manners and sturdy nationality, her sons feel little need of the seductive graces of more sunny lands; and we may find as reverent devotion in many a moorland 'kirk' as in our own beautiful minsters or the gorgeous Cathedrals of Italy, with frescoed walls,

marble pillars, and stained glass windows. Suum cuique: for my own part I love them all.

The memory of innumerable boyish rambles comes back to me, and I watch the rapid changes in familiar scenes with unabated interest. The last fifteen years have opened railway communications into many a quiet little nook, and hurried more than a few villages, now bustling and thriving, into a state bordering on township. Other places, again, have been left behind in the race, and seem lazily slipping into oblivion, as the new lines of traffic refuse to have anything to do with them. Getting a branch-line of their own is the sole remaining card for them to win a trick with, evidently. Often have I walked from Stirling to Blackford, as a boy, by the drove road, over the Sherriemuir, where was fought the great battle, of which Argyle said that,

"If it wasna weel bobbit,* weel bobbit, weel bobbit,
If it wasna weel bobbit, we'll bob it again.”

But that old drove-road from Stirling is, like other ancient ways, fallen into disuse. Deserted is the "wee public," where we used to refresh on ginger-beer and whisky mixed-a pleasant substitute for nectar, which the Olympians would have preferred, if Hebe had known her business and been a Scotch lassie. At times would be encountered long droves of Highland cattle, where Tugalt and Tonalt were exchanging "cracks" about their beasties, or a pinch of elegant extracts from each other's snuff-mulls and spleuchans. Then what glee was on the lower road, the old coach road to Greenloaning, alongside of the driver, Peter, who knew the history of every mansion, farm, turnpike, and pedestrian that we passed, and would delight with it his fortunate companion on the box-seat-if the stars and temper were propitious! But now we go by railways, attended by civil guards who never lose their temper, or communicate information about anything except timetables. Instead of the inn-door, with a smart hostess and a pretty chambermaid smiling at the bar-windows, a redfaced landlord with capacious waistcoat, some sprawling children, and jaunty chanticleer insanely mocking the coach-horn from sheer spite, whilst the hostler removes the steaming cattle, we now have now have cleanly platforms, square-built station-houses, and flat palings with large

*Bobbit,' Anglice, 'fought.'

notices of local dues, which never fall at eve, and of "Passengers going to Whatsitsname keep on this side;" where the only incidents are a ringing of bells, slamming of doors, collecting of tickets, losing of luggage, and taking in of water whereof a little goes a great way, with some of us. Oftentimes we have a collision, but sometimes we have not just as it happens. Very quickly, tolerably safely, and comfortably, we journey, it is true, wrapped in railway-rugs and reading this morning's Times; but we have lost much of the old romance of travel which accompanied us to some favourite Scotch Village.

We must not grumble at these changes, but pay the price when receiving certain advantages. Whilst these fifteen years have ripened the boy into the man, and turned the stalwart grandsires into frail "auld bodies," leading in new occupants of pulpits and cradles, many have been the inroads of culture on sterility. Of the extensive moorlands, much has been wire-fenced, ploughed, and sown, and scores of well-managed farms that we could name, attest what can be done by intelligence and perseverance. The drain-tile, the schoolmaster, and the clergyman have severally done their duty; and nowhere better than in Scotland, (to give the country its due,) is seen the triumph of manly natures over obstacles. It has rapidly arisen from what may truly be called barbarism, into a position of intellectual and political equality with other nations, seemingly more favoured by external circumstances, and deserves respectful admiration. The land of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns has become endeared to us. And this not only because they wrote cheerfully, doing their best to extend more brotherly feelings, but because it is a land especially distinguished by the qualities of honesty, manly vigour, determined perseverance and patriotic affection: qualities that made these Scottish writers recognised in their usefulness throughout the world.

§ II. How we heard about it.

We

There is yet another Scottish writer whose works are gradually becoming known on both sides of the Tweed, and who is still living in the Green Vale of Dumfries. refer to Thomas Aird, author of "Religious Characteristics," a "Memoir of Delta," a large volume of truly noble "Poems," now in a fourth edition (Blackwood, 1863), and the delightful "Old Bachelor of the Old Scottish Village,"