wa ucgree; out there is a lurking devii in his keen gity tye, that givtɔ a vuly illtelligible 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 "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 Then sinks in the stream with a broken song. The lapwing, fearless of his nest, Stands looking round with his delicate crest; As he wheels, and darts, and glances by. Is the heron asleep on the silvery sand * * * * LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth WILSON. O! that this lovely vale were mine, There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of Time! And did I ask to whom belong'd Nature's most gracious soul! She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea, long as Nature's humblest child Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, A CHURCH-YARD DREAM. METHOUGHT that in a burial-ground One still, sad vernal day, Upon a little daisied mound I in a slumber lay; While faintly through my dream I heard The hymning of that holy bird, Who with more gushing rapture sings The higher up in heaven float his unwearied wings! In that my mournful reverie, Such song of heavenly birth, The voice seemed of a soul set free Higher and higher still it soared, Just then a child in sportive glee She pour'd the beauty of her smile, Then laid her bright cheek on the sod, And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God. The flowers that shine all round her head For flowers are they that spring hath shed, And well the tenderest gleams may fall Of sunshine, on that hillock small On which she sleeps,-for they have smiled O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious child. In bridal garments, white as snow, A solitary maid Doth meekly bring a sunny glow A church-yard seems a joyful place A soul is in that deep blue eye Too good to live on earth,-too beautiful to die. But Death behind a marble tomb Looks out upon his prey; And smiles to know that heavenly bloom Is yet of earthly clay. Far off I hear a wailing wide, And, while I gaze upon that bride, A silent wraith before me stands, And points unto a grave with cold, pale, clasped hands. A matron, beautiful and bright, As is the silver moon, Whose lustre tames the sparkling light |