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had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dread ful morasses."

“They made her a grave too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,'
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,

And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

When the footstep of Death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds

His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,

And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,

If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,

And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, “Oh! when shall I see the dusky lake,

And the white canoe of my dear?

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface play'd-
“Welcome,” he said, “my dear one's light!”
And the dim shore echoed for many a night,

The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from shore;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat return'd no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,

This lover and maid so true,
Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe.

1 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the lake in the iniddle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.

THE STUDY OF NATURE.

Martin FARQUHAR TUPPER. That which may profit and amuse is gathered from the volume of

creation, For every chapter therein teemeth with the piayfulness of wisdom. The elements of all things are the same, though nature hath mixed

them with a difference, And learning delighteth to discover the affinity of seeming opposites : So out of great things and small draweth he the secrets of the universe, And argueth the cycles of the stars, from a pebble flung by a child. It is pleasant to note all plants, from the rush to the spreading cedar, From the giant king of palms, to the lichen that staineth its stem; To watch the workings of instinct, that grosser reason of brutes, The river horse browsing in the jungle, the plover screaming on the moor, The cayman basking on a mud-bank, and the walrus anchored to an

iceberg, The dog at his master's feet, and the milch-kine lowing in the meadow: To trace the consummate skill that hath modelled the anatomy of

insects, Small fowls that sun their wings on the petals of wild flowers ; To learn a use in the beetle, and more than a beauty in the butterfly; To recognise affections in a moth, and look with admiration on a spider. It is glorious to gaze upon the firmament, and see from far the mansions

of the blest, Each distant shining world, a kingdom for one of the redeemed; To read the antique history of earth, stamped upon those medals in

the rocks Which design hath rescued from decay, to tell of the green infancy of

time; To gather from the unconsidered shingle the mottled starlike agates, Full of unstoried flowers in the budding bloom-chalcedony ; Or gay and curious shells, fretted with microscopic carving, Corallines, and fresh sea weeds, spreading forth their delicate branches. It is an admirable lore to learn the cause in the change, To study the chemistry of nature, her grand but simple secrets, 'To search out all her wonders, to track the resources of her skill, To note her kind compensations, her unobtrusive excellence. In all it is wise happiness to see the well-ordained laws of Jehovah, The harmony that filleth all his mind, the justice that tempereth his

bounty, The wonderful all-prevalent analogy that testifieth one Creator, The broad arrow of the Great King, carved on all the stores of his

arsenal.

COWPER.

THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
The greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs, displaced from that retreat,

Enjoy'd the open air ;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.

H

They sang as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true;
But that delight they never knew,

And, therefore, never miss'd.
But Nature works in every breast
With force not easily suppress'd;

And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.
The open windows seem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confined ;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.
So, settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemd to say,

You must not live alone-
Nor would he quit that chosen stand,
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,

Return'd him to his own.
Oh ye, who never taste the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird
A prison with a friend preferr'd

To liberty without.

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PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic Muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and t’immortalize her trust:
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,

To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fall’n in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time ensure, to his loved land
The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim,
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.
Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,
Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chas'd them up to Heav'n. Their ashes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed,
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious suffrers little praise.

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain,
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.'
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compar'd
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say—"My father made them all.”

THE SONG OF MINONA.

OSSIAN.

MINONA came forth in her beauty; with down-cast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar,” the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill.

" It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; furlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead

2 Sealg-'er, a hunter. 3 Cul-math, a woman with fine hair.

1 See Judges av

me to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise ? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ab! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, 0 wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! It is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, () my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands ! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent for ever!' Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead ! speak, I will not be afraid ! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed ? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind ? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill, when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma !"

APPROACH OF MACBETH'S FATE.

SHAKSPERE.
SCENE-Dunsinane. Within the Castle.

Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.
Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls :
The cry is still, They come : Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn : here let them lie,
Till famine, and the ague, eat them up:
Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,

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