IN sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,

Of Egypt's awful flood

1 Bruce's mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the Nile, are thus portrayed by him :-"I was, at that very moment, in possession of what had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the

So long a hidden thing to earth!

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone

A music sought, but never found

By kings and warriors gone.
He listen'd-and his heart beat high:
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror's mood
Rush'd burning through his frame,-
The depths of that green solitude

Its torrents could not tame;

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Round those far fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars. Across his soul
There swept a sudden change:
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal,
A shadow dark and strange
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fali
O'er triumph's hour-and is this all ?1

No more than this!

What seem'd it now First by that spring to stand? A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain-land! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, Their wild, sweet voices, call'd him back.

They call'd him back to many a glade,

His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away;

They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father's hills and graves.

But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught

With all that lay betweenThe Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?

His alter'd heart within him died

With yearnings for his home!

fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy."

1 This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would em. ploy her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to

hours of peace,

the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of "Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above."

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh-the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,

Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hush'd-and eve's last splendour shone With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said—

"I listen'd for the words, which, years ago, Pass'd o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone bencath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breathi,

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenMany, but bringing naught like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,

Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone,

And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be ! for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither; but away
The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of timeTherefore we hoped but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes-and finds not him!

"We gather'd round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell'd and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank upon my breastOur friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We rear'd this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

"But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye: "Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works-yet, where the seed hath been,

There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

“Hope on, hope ever !—by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,

But as a lovely song, to leave no trace;

Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,

And the full dayspring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

So by the cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after day,
Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

["The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine-no false glitter about her-no ostentatious display -no gaudy and jingling ornaments-but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and religious."-PROFESSOR WILSON in Blackwood's Magazine. Dec. 1826.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster's bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,
O'er the sea hung mournfully;
Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum's dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets' tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone

In his manhood's pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,1

1 A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales.

"It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful

Learn, that from his harvests done,
Peasants bear a brother on
To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,
Weep a maiden claims thy tear-
Broken is the rose !

Which is the tenderest rite of all -Buried virgin's coronal,

Requiem o'er the monarch's head, Farewell gun for warrior dead,

Herdsman's funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human woe?
Each of hope and strength brought low?
Number each with holy things,
If one chastening thought it brings
Ere life's day grow dim!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.2

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and
watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls

To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach'd,

than the following poem by Mrs Hemans."-Blackwood's Magazine. Jan. 1826.