voice;

And to the air the buoyant lark is given, As if a messenger from earth to heaven.

And, lo, the cot sends forth its curling smoke;

The early hind already is astir, And she with whom he bears the nuptial yoke

So light and sweet-fondly he kisses her,

Kisses his lovely sleeping babes--and then Bids God protect them till he come again.

And, hark! the shepherd's voice is on the hill,

The milk-maid's song within the willow'd vale;

The wild-bee's hum, along the flower

bank'd rill,

Is heard amid the pauses of the gale, And insects, dancing in the sunny ray, Tell us of lives that quickly pass away!

VOL. XV.

And, lo, the ploughman, whistling 'mid his joy,

Binds to the daily yoke his sprightly

team;

And merry hay-makers, man, maid, and boy,

Hie to the mead that lies along the

stream,

Raising a song of blissful gladness born There's something glorious in a summer's

morn.

But hold, my muse; it was not my in

tention

To paint the scenery of pastoral hills Or rural dales-I only meant to mention The morning calm that so serenely fills

A mighty city, even the great Dunedin, In which I lately popp'd my country head

in.

It was a morn of June-delightful June! When every summer flower is in its prime,

When every summer songster is in tune, When vallies promise a blithe harvest

time, When fruitful kine are lowing on each plain

By Heavens! I'm at the country once again.

It was a morn of June, as I have said, '

And I arose, though devilish fond of

sleeping,

At least of dreaming, on my lonely bed, Of things that often turn my heart to

weeping

Of days that have been-lovely days !—

I wander'd through each lane, and street, and square,

But all was silent-nothing there ap. pear'd,

Save drowsy watchmen, with a stupid air,

Calling the watchword that they scarcely heard;

And busy cinder-wives, poor, dirty souls! Scraping among the ghosts of Lothian coals,

Scraping, in hopes to find a brooch or ring; For they knew better than old Esop's cock,

That would have gladly ta'en for such a thing

A single grain, of barley,-no great stock;

.But they preferr'd the metal, cunning elves!

For which so many thousands damn themselves.

A brooch, a ring, each a delightful word! They speak to me of promis'd days of bliss;

The ring that I may put on hand ador'd, That in its pressure is so sweet to press;

The brooch that I may fix upon the breast

That loves me dearly, and that I love best.

Ay, woman's hand is the endearing pledge Of all that Heav'n hath promis'd man below;

And who with such a treasure e'er would grudge

To meet the buffetings of care and woe, The blast of calumny, the scorn of pride, And all this wicked world can send beside?

cate!

Ha, man of many words! thy noise is o'er,

But what a pity for so short a date! Yet thou art sleeping, as I may suppose, With thy loud tongue less loud now than thy nose.

Sleep on-I really do not see the use

Of going round about the bush and round,

With vain circumlocution so profuse

Of tropes and figures of an empty sound,

And tricks of eloquence-if so we may Call thy long speeches measur'd by the day.

A few plain words are quite enough, I'm

throng

Of his vile tribe, who, like a spider, roll Their webs o'er many a human fly-poor soul !

I hate all things that mind me of this hive

Of wasps, that sip the sweets they have no right to; Especially the wretch who plucks alive Poor geese, and makes them such a

devilish fright too; For though it may the housewife's store increase,

They stalk about, the very ghosts of geese.

Sleep on, for Heaven's sake! perchance, thou dreamest

Of heavy fees, those very serious evils; Then dream, for Heaven's sake! not what thou schemest,

But let it be of fire-eyed gaping devils, And spectred clients starting from the grave

To bid thee crave God's mercy-Godsake crave!

Ah! who comes next? a Doctor!-fear

ful leech!

I dare not look upon thy handsome door;

It seems to me the gate of death-the beach

From which I hear the furious billows

roar

Their awful threatning, as they come to sweep

My spirit down to the eternal deep.

Pray why do Doctors clothe themselves

in sable,

And at their entrance frighten ner

vous people,

Who, trembling, think, even at a sumptuous table,

Of the dark church-yard, and the grey church steeple?

Their garment should be green, for it bespeaks

Bright suns, and brilliant flowers, and blooming cheeks.

Sleep on, dear Doctor! if thou still art sleeping,

And dream-0 dream most hideously of those

Deserted creatures thou hast given to weeping,

By giving others an unconscious doze! O dream! and when thou wakest in the morning,

Fix on thy heart the visionary warning.

But let me look again-O Mistress Blank!

I know she has a very lovely daughter; Even like a wild-flower growing on a bank, That dips its fringes in the passing water,

She bathes her spirit in her mother's sorrows,

And from her tears redoubled beauty borrows.

Sleep on, sweet girl! and in thy visions

meet

The art of dancing, dainty food, and dress,

And books, too-books! for they must learn to think,

And speak, and act, even like a highborn creature ;

thine,

the link

Despise the poor! no, I respect them; lo; What useful creatures swarm on every hand,

On to their occupations as they go,

With cheerful faces, and with spirits bland;

And still the rich are sleeping on and on,

The hive of mortals never kill a drone!

There goes the sutor to his little stall, That scarce could hold a hen and twelve young chickens;

And yet he looks how happy-like withal! The world may scorn him, but his heart ne'er sickens ;

He holds his blacken'd thumb a brighter

laurel

Than that for which contending tyrants quarrel.

There hies the weaver to his web and loom,

And whistles cheerily as on he hies; And though he tenant but a garret-room, His busy hand each family want sup. plies:

"Tis not the case with many a luckless

fellow

Who weaves his verse in place of thin prunello.

There goes the mason, blessed be his art! Without him, what were even Dunedin now?

A valley travers'd by the plough and cart,

A green hill pastur'd by the sheep and

cow;

Yea, blessed be his art! without his toil, We might, like rabbits, burrow in the soil.

There hies the joiner, with his many tools; Though hard his labour, how the lad is laughing!

And still his merriment of heart ne'er cools,

Though hastening on his way to make a coffin

To some poor wretch; well, coffins must be made,

And sextons ply the mattock and the spade.

Now all the world is busy,the world all,

For thou, Dunedin, art the world to

And even though lit by Fancy's heav'nly rays

To wander far beyond this world below

In spiritual existence, we must come→ O, shocking exigence! and dine at home.

And even when we luxuriate in our grief, When parted kindred leave us in the gloom,

When no sweet hope shines to our heart's relief,

And comfort seems but for us in the

tomb;

Yet hunger comes amid the mental strife, And makes us cling to this terrestrial life.

So I, though meditating lofty themes, Even chimney-sweeps, and cinderwives, and doors,

BARCLAY DRUMMOND; OR,

FEW men, not even excepting exiles, are so destitute of self-love as to believe that no one takes an interest in their fate, or would not be moved by the story of their wrongs and misfortunes. I am not superior to the influence of a feeling so general, nor am I willing that my bones should moulder in a foreign land, unhallowed by a single tear of regret; or that, when my shattered, war-worn frame is consigued to the earth, my name should altogether perish in the memory of those among whom I spent the innocent and happy days of my youth. I have, therefore, resolved to commit to writing a few particulars of my strange eventful history," in the hope that, when I am no more, they will fall into some friendly hand, by whom they will be conveyed to her (if she yet lives) whose name will appear at the close of this narrative, and who, if time and chance, which happen to all, have not cooled a heart that once glowed with every pure and generous affection, will hardly refuse a tear to the memory of him she once loved with all the fervent and uncalculating sincerity of youthful enthusiasm. Had the day shone as the morning dawned, and had the early promise of my life not been belied by the subsequent stern reality, my Lousia would not, self-devoted and self-sacrificed, have

And scavengers, and ashes-carts, and dreams,

And maids, and advocates, and scribes, and boors,

Must leave my flight, on this delightful

morn,

And, like a horse, regale myself with

corn".

MEMOIRS OF AN EXILE. "wasted her sweetness on the desart air;" nor would the grey hairs of my virtuous and venerable parents have descended in sorrow to the grave. But there is a tide in the affairs of men. Taken at the summit, it leads on to fortune; but woe be to him who is caught in the strength of its ebbing current! In vain he struggles with the destiny that hurries him on. An accident, next to a miracle, may save him from utter and final destruction; he may not be engulphed at the moment when he gives up all for lost, and resigns himself to the unutterable agonies of despair; in his death-grasp he may catch some reed of momentary safety, and hope, which had fled, may return; but the illusion is fleeting and unreal; his doom is written, his destiny is sealed, his cup is mingled -and he must drain it to the dregs.

Call it by what name you will, there is a presiding influence which all men, in all their actions, and even in all their thoughts, obey. Unconscious of its existence in individual actions or volitions, we discover it plainly and undeniably in the general result; just as we determine the progress of the index of the chronometer, or of the shadow on the dialplate. Every thing tends to confirm this view of human actions, and, by consequence, of human affairs. Things apparently the most anoma