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DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER’s Eve.

Down the sultry arc of day
The burning wheels have urged their way,
And Eve along the western skies
Spreads her intermingling dyes;
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft, with his accustomed call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
The barn is still,—the master's gone,—
And thresher puts his jacket on ;
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,

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Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn'd the sheepcot fast;
For 'twas but two nights before
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries;
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheel'd,
And both the colts are drove a-field :
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly walk.

Now on the settle all but Bess
Are set, to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings;
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the 'squire refuse,
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain’d for rent.
Thus do they, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high ;
And from the ale-house drunken Ned
Had reel'd ;—then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate,
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid, while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out ;
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear:
Then both to bed together creep,

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

O! YONDER is the well-known spot,

My dear, my long-lost native home ; Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest—no more to roam ! Oh, I have travell’d far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land ; Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband ! But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report,

Allured me from my native land; It bade me rove—my sole support

My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights ; The plain adorn'd with many a flock,

And oh ! a thousand more delights That grace yon dear belov’d retreat, Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return’d with wandering tired,

No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen

Shall wile away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,

O’er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband! But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

John WILson was born at Paisley, in 1789. After going through a preparatory course of study at the University of Glasgow, he was entered a fellow-commoner at Magdalen College, Oxford; and very soon obtained some portion of that fame of which he was destined to participate so largely. Much of his paternal property was lost by the failure of a mercantile concern in which it had been embarked; but enough remained to purchase the elegancies of life: he bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on the lake of Winandermere—fit dwelling for a Poet—and continues to inhabit it, when his professional duties permit his absence from Edinburgh. In 1812, he published the Isle of Palms; and the City of the Plague, in 1816. In 1820, he became, under circumstances highly honourable to him, a successful candidate for the Chair of Moral Philosophy, in the University of the Scottish metropolis. He has since published but little poetry: his prose tales—“the Trials of Margaret Lindsay," “the Foresters,” and “Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life"—have, however, amply compensated the world for his desertion of the Muses; and his contributions to “Blackwood's Magazine,” which are too strongly marked to leave any doubt of their authorship, have established for him a high and enduring reputation. The conduct of this Periodical is so universally understood to be in the hands of the Professor, that we may consider ourselves justified in describing him as its Editor. He has long upheld its supremacy: the best supported Magazines of England have failed in competing with it; because there is no living writer whose talents are so versatile, and consequently so fitted to deal with the varied topics upon which his judgment or his fancy must be employed. His learning is both profound and excursive ; his criticism searching and sound; his descriptions of scenery exquisitely true; his paintings of human character and passion admirable; his wit and humour delightful, when it does not degenerate into “fun;” and no writer of modern times has written so many deliciously eloquent passages which produce, if we may so express ourselves, gushes of admiration. The mind of Wilson is a remarkable blending of the kindly and the bitter:—his praise is always full and hearty; his censure almost unendurable: he appears to have no controul over his likings or dislikings;–at times, pursues with almost superhuman wrath, and then, again, becomes so generous and eloquent, that he absolutely makes an author's character, and establishes his position by a few sentences of approval. From all his criticisms there may be gathered some evidence of a sound heart; of a nature like the Highland breezes—keen, but healthy; often most invigorating when most severe—but which may be safely encountered only by those whose stamina is unquestionable. The personal appearance of Professor Wilson is very remarkable: his frame is, like his mind, powerful and robust. His complexion is florid, and his features are finely marked ; the mouth is exquisitely chiselled, the expression of his countenance is gentle to a degree : but there is “a lurking devil” in his keen grey eye, that gives a very intelligible hint to the observer. His forehead is broad and high. To us, among all the great men we have ever beheld—and they have not been few—there is not one who so thoroughly extorts a mingled sensation of love and fear.

The poetry of Professor Wilson has not attained the popularity to which it is entitled; probably because when he first published, he had to compete with a formidable rival in his own illustrious countryman, and the fame which, in England, nearly at the same period, was about to absorb that of all other Bards. His poems are, however, full of beauty; they have all the freshness of the heather, a true relish for nature breaks out in them all : there is no puerile or sickly sentimentalism;-they are the earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit; a giving out, as it were, of the breath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They manifest, moreover, the finest sympathies with human ty; nothing harsh or repining seems to have entered the Poet's thoughts; they may be read as compositions of the highest merit, as bearing the severest test of critical asperity; but also as graceful and beautiful transcripts of nature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is no evidence of “fine phrenzy" in his glances “from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," but there is ample proof of the depth of his worship, and the fulness of his affection for all the objects which “Nature's God” has made graceful and fruitful. It is worthy of comment, that, as far as we know, Wilson has never penned a line of satire, in poetry, seeming as if his thoughts could take in nothing but what was good, and

FROM EDITH AND NORA.

"Tis a lonely glen but the happy child
Hath friends whom she meets in the morning wild !
As on she trips, her native stream,
Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream;
And glides away by her twinkling feet
With a face as bright, and a voice as sweet.
In the osier bank the ouzel sitting,
Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting
From stone to stone, as she glides along,
Then sinks in the stream with a broken song.
The lapwing, fearless of his nest,
Stands looking round with his delicate crest;
Or a love-like joy is in his cry,
As he wheels, and darts, and glances by.

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