The mists of the mountain hung heavy and pale,
Like the spectre of night's gloomy hour,

The lone owl scream'd loud in the Abbey's dark aile,

And the forehead of Fate seemed to low'r. Such a night as (old legends will fearfully tell, Rang'd the red glowing moss-fire around,) When the wind at dull midnight rung old Norman's knell,

In dread numbers and loud, on the Castle's harsh bell,

Thrice, ere he was laid in the ground.

This night saw the nuptials of Colin the gay,
And the pride of the valley, his Jane,-
Sweet flower! more enchanting than rose-bud

in May,

Or the broad setting sun's lovely scene: Nor even could slander or malice produce

A thought that was mean of her mate

He was proud, but, Q say, what is pride's best

excuse,

When the soft fires of Love light the soul and diffuse

A charm that ennobles man's state?

Three summers the sunshine of Love had endur'd, Three dreary cold winters saw roll,

Tho' winter ne'er darken'd Love's year, but insur'd

A full flow of bliss to the soul:

Yet the omen was sadd'ning which hung on the brow

Of the eve their fond souls were conjoin'd

In the dear tender ties made more dear by Love's VOW;

But why Virtue to Fáte's dire decree should e'er

bow

This griev'd heart, ah! never could find. One dark night, when loud blew the bleak North

and keen,

And Ruin held council on high,

green,

And wept unabated the sky.

Poor Colin's abode, a neat cottage, which stood
On the river's broad margin so gay,
Oppos'd its thin walls, but in vain, to the flood,
For it yielded, as yields to the blast the young
bud,

And the cruel storm bore it away.

Dread attempt! mid the quick tide, with broad breast and true,

Did Colin dash nobly, to snatch one remainThe clan-cheering pipe his brave forefathers blew, On hill never-conquer'd, or plain.

And if soft Compassion can pour the sad tear,
Of piteous woe, let the tribute be given,
For the form that ne'er trembled at danger or
fear,

Like the wreck of the ocean which high billows bear,

A-down the red torrent was driven..

In the midnight of woe and the gloom of despair, His Jane, the sweet, lovely, and young, Mark'd the deed for a moment, with frantic, wild stare,

When each strain'd ball of sight' seem'd un

strung.

The tear of her sadness flow'd freely, but why, She wist not, nor what she had seen,

And she named Colin thrice, but no Colin was nigh,

For the mists of delusion hung pale on the eye,
Like the night-star when clouds intervene.

And oft-times the rustic shall dwell on the theme,
To the stranger whom pity brings there,
And tell how at midnight's dull hour the sad

scream

Of the Benshee, foul sprite! floats in air; And point to the place, now with grass overgrown,

And nightshade near yonder yew-tree, And jeer at some luckless poor wight, who, alone, Wends thither for stray kid, his courage quite gone,

And his terrors how many they be!

ARABIAN FAITH.-An Arab, after he has eaten and drank with another, let him be ever so great a stranger, and of whatever religion or country, would sooner perish than suffer him to receive the least injury, either in person or property; and whoever, in distress, puts himself entirely under the protection of an Arab, may rely on being defended in the most faithful

manner.

A French courier was carrying dispatches aeross the great desert, from Aleppo to Bassora,

and had with him an interpreter, and an escort of about eighty men, mostly on camels; when, about five days' journey from his destination, they were attacked, in the evening, by a tribe of Arabs. The messenger shot the sheik of the hostile party, but they rushed with such fury at the first onset, that, before he had time to charge again, he was cut down with a sabre. Most of his guards being killed, were stripped, and the Frenchman among them, as a supposed partaker of their fate. After the engagement, the Arabs lighted fires, to make coffee, and refresh themselves; and sat in a circle on the ground, according to their custom.

The messenger's wound not proving mortal, he soon recovered his senses; and finding himself entirely naked, as well as much weakened by loss of blood, he had nearly given himself up to despair; but recollecting to have heard of this singular disposition of the Arabs, he resolved to try the experiment, as the only means of preserving his life, or putting an end to his existence. He took a view of the Arabs, situated as already described, and having singled out him whom he thought most likely to be their chief, as being the oldest-looking man in their company, naked as he was, and almost covered with blood, he rushed into the ring, and fell prostrate at his feet. His conjecture was right; and this leader immediately covered him with his cloak. He was now at a loss for his interpreter, but on s arch being made, that individual was found, in a similar situation, wounded, but not dangerously. The messenger had his clothes and dispatches returned to him; and the chief entered into an agreement to deliver him safe at Bassora, on the messenger un lertaking to pay a hundred sequins.

TALES OF MY LANDLORD. (Second Series.) JEANIE AND EFFIE DEANS.

It is not, we believe, very generally known, that the celebrated tale of "The Heart of MidLothian" is founded on fact, and that its heroines resided for the greater part of their lives in the immediate neighbourhood of Dumfries. Of these facts, however, our readers will entertain no doubt, when they shall have perused the following narrative from a memorandum, made by a lady, long before the last series of the "Tales of My Landlord" had been announced, and we distinctly pledge ourselves to the public for the authenticity of its contents.-(Dumfries Courier.)

EXTRACT" As my kitchen and parlour were not very far from each other, 1 one day went in to purchase chickens from a person I heard offering them for sale. This was a little stout looking woman, who seemed between 70 and 80 years of age. She was almost covered with a tartan plaid, and her cap had over it a black silk hood, tied under the chin, a piece of dress still much in use among elderly women in that

rank of life in Scotland. Her eyes were dark, and remarkably lively and intelligent. I entered into conversation with her, and began by asking how she maintained herself, &c. She said, that in winter she fitted stockings, that is knitted feet to country people's hose-an employment which bears about the same relation to stocking-making, that cobbling does to shoe-making, and is, of course, both less profitable and less dignified. She added, that she taught a few children to read, and in summer whiles, reared a wheen chickens.'. . . . After some further conversation, during which I was more and more pleased with the good sense and naivete of the old woman's remarks, she rose to go away. I then asked her name. Her countenance was suddenly clouded, her colour slightly rose, and she said, gravely, or rather solemnly, My name is Helen Walker; but your husband kens weel about me.'

"In the evening, I mentioned to Mrthe new acquaintance I had made, and how much I had been pleased, and inquired what was remarkable in the history of this poor woman. Mr.said, there were few

more extraordinary persons than Helen Walker. She had been early left an orphan, with the charge of a sister considerably younger than herself, whom she educated and maintained by her exertions. It will not be easy to conceive her feelings, when she found that this only sister must be tried by the laws of her country for child murder, and herself called upon as the principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen, that if she could declare that her sister had made any preparation, however slight, or had given her any intimation whatever of her situation, such a statement would save her sister's life. Helen said,⚫ It is impossible for me, Sir, to give my oath to a falsehood, and whatever be the consequence, I will give my evidence according to my conscience. The trial came on. The sister was found

guilty and condemned.-In removing the pri soner from the bar, she was heard to say to her sister, O Nelly! ye hae been the cause of my death.' Helen replied, 'Ye ken I buid to speak the truth.'

"In Scotland, six weeks must elapse between the sentence and the execution, and Helen availed herself of it. The very day of her sister's condemnation, she got a petition drawn up, stating the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that same night she set out on foot from Dumfries to London, without introduction or recommendation. She presented herself in her tartan plaid, and country attire, before John, Duke of Argyl, (after having watched three days at his door,) just as he was stepping into his carriage, and delivered her petition. Herself and her story interested him so much, that he immediately procured the pardon she solicited, which was forwarded to Dumfries, and Helen returned, having performed her meritorious journey on foot.

"I was so strongly interested in this narrative, that I earnestly wished to prosecute my acquaintance with Helen Walker; but as I was to leave the country next day, I was obliged to postpone it till my return in the spring, when my first walk was to Helen's cottage. She had died a short time before. My regret was extreme, and I endeavoured to obtain some account of her from a woman at the other end of the house. I inquired if Helen had ever spoken of her past history, her journey to London, &c. 'No' said the old woman, Helen was a wild body, and whenever ony of the neighbour, speer'd ony thing about it, she aye changed the discourse. In short, every answer I received only served to raise my opinion of Helen Walker, who could unite so much prudence with so much heroism and virtue."

Helen Walker lived on the romantic banks of Clouden, a little way above the bridge by which the road from Dumfries to Sanqubar crosses that beautiful stream. The name of her

younger sister is said to have been Tibby (Isabella,) and it is known that, after her liberation from Dumfries gaol, she was united in marriage to the father of the little innocent, whose premature death had brought her life into jeopardy; and that she lived with him in the North of England, where Helen used occasionally to visit her. The interview betwixt Helen and Mrs.—above detailed, took place in October, 1786, and the remains of the old woman were interred in the church-yard of Irongray, in the spring of 1787, without a stone to mark the spot where they are deposited.

Thoughts.

GOLD. This metal is to solace the wants, and not to nourish the passions of men. In this view, it was generally brought from the mines, purified, struck, and stamped. He who expends it properly, is its master; he who lays it up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it, a slave; he who adores it, an idolator; the truly wise man is he who despises it.

NATURE.-In some people she mistakes the head for the heart, by making the former soft and the latter hard!

CORRUPTION.-When corruption, laden with gold, knocks at the door of indigence, it is rarely shut.

Love. It is a perpetual paradox; nothing in nature is so varied as its pleasures, and yet they are ever the same.

A WOMAN OF SENSE.-She should never take a lover without the sanction of her heart, nor a husband without the consent of her

reason.

AUTHORS.-Like flambeaux, they consume themselves by giving light to others.

PLINY.-He said, the face was a silent echo of the heart.

READING.-It is useless without reflection. There are instances of book-gluttons who very

much resembled the lean kine in Pharaoh's vision, which, when they had devoured the fat, were as lean and ill-favoured as before.

Translations.

THE SONG OF ANTAR,

LITERALLY FROM THE ARABIC.

IBLA-I love thee with a warrior's love,
Thy very shadow is my happiness,
Thou rulest all the pulses of my heart,
My queen, my spirit's hope, and faith, and love!
I cannot paint thy beauty, for it leaves
All picturing pale. Were I to say the Moon
Looks in her midnight glory like thy brow,
Where is the wild sweet sparkling of thine eye?
Or that thy shape was stately as the paim,
Can all its waving blossoms show thy grace?
Thy forehead's whiteness is my rising sun,
The ebon tresses wreathing it like night,
Like night bewilder me. Thy brilliant teeth
Are pearls, if the blue ocean's gems could live;
Thy bosom is a white enchantment! Heav'n
That made it in perfection, guard its peace,
IBLA-'twas blessing to be at thy side,-

But now my world is darkness-for thou'rt gore
Thy look was to my life what evening dews
Are to the drooping rose; thy single glance
Went swifter, deeper, to thy lover's heart,
Than spear or scymitar; and still I gaze
Hopeless on thee, as on the glorious Moon,
For thou, like her, art bright-like her, above
TRISSINO,

me.

FUTURITY,

FROM HORACE.

Old Time, my son, no quarter gives,
His paces never vary,

Since, soon or late, each man that lives,

Must cross the Stygian ferry.

Pious and impious, both must share

One common fate, we know; Though Virtue moderates our care, She can't avert the blow.

In vain we shun the fate of war,

Or Neptune's angry flood, Or seek asylums distant far

From anarchy and blood,

We shall be soon transported hence,
To kingdoms unexplor'd,
Where Vice will meet its recompense,
And Virtue be ador'd.

G. D.

SIR,

Trifles.

I send you a real curiosity, a short speech by Lord CASTLEREAGH, not made in the Ionourable House," but muttered in a certain official house, at the close of the Westminster Election. Poor BURDETT

Is in a pet,

Mr. HоBHOUSE

Thinks to mob us,

Mr. LAMB

's not worth a damn,

All the Whigs
Ar'n't worth two figs;
The real case is,

They want our places :
Great and small,

Curse 'em all!

RULES FOR RIDING AND WALKING.

The rule of the road is a paradox quite,

As the carriages jog it along;

If you go to the left, you are sure to be right,
If you go to the right you are wrong ;
But the rule of the foot is as clear as the light,
And none can its reason withstand;

On each side of the way you must keep to the right,

And give those you meet the left hand.

Verses.

ON THE DEATII OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclos'd his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior. taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Both few and short were the pray'rs we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his scanty bed, And smooth'd down his narrow pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of his spirit's that gone,

;

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep ou In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
And so he shall sleep, tho' the foe shou'd raise,*
In zeal for the fame they covet,

A tomb or a trophy, to speak the praise
Of him who has soar'd above it.
By Englishmen's steps when the turf is trod,
On the breast of their hero pressing,
Let them offer a prayer to England's God,
For him that was England's blessing.

This and the succeeding Stanza were added by the Gentleman to whose contribution our Miscellany is indebted for the Epitaph, in its first Number, on" Sir Samuel Romilly."

Of tears that flow'd unseen by human eye,
As from her pillow rose her midnight pray'r-to

die!

And so she died-in early beauty died;

A violet by its first soft shower decay'd; A flush of radiance on life's changing tide, Just seen and lov'd, and lost in evening shade.

A young, sweet star, just risen but to fade; And this fair image, smiling in sad bloom On her, so soon in quiet to be laid, Looks like her Angel-drooping at the doom,Sent to prepare her for her calm and hallow'd

tomb.

HUMAN LIFE.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

[The following description of Infancy, from this poem, is exquisitely beautiful.]

Her, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows;
How soon by his the glad discov'ry shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,

What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard,
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How bless'd to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart:
Watch o'er his slumbers, like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

TWILIGHT.

The western skies are no longer gay,
For the sun of the summer has died away,
Yet left no gloom:

For ere the spirit of Heaven went,
He tun'd night's shadowy instrument,

And hung on every leaf perfume.

To each sweet breeze that haunts the world,
And sleeps by day in the rose-leaf curl'd,
A warmth he gave:

He has left a life in these marble halls,

And beauty on yon white waterfalls,

And still at his bidding these dark pines

wave.

Rich is the sun with his golden hair,

And his eye is too bright for man to bear; And when he shrouds

A FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR,
O, fare thee well, departed Year,
And still may thy successor,
Follow with gracious smiles each tear,
As did his predecessor,

Hist'ry thy cenotaph shall crown

With flow'rs that cannot perish; Remembrance thy unblam'd renown, With honest pride shall cherish.

And when, in future years, the sage

Turns o'er the pregnant annals, That speak of this eventful age,

And trace its crimson channels; Weary of battles lost and won,

By peaceful scenes delighted,、 His eye the glare of war shall shun, With their soft green requited. W. C. HARVEY,

Pentonville, Dec. 31, 1818.

FRAGMENT.

"Bring out my sable steed, and throw
Thy mantle o'er that neck of snow;
And let my brazen helmet shade
A brow, which Death alone can fade;
Dight on my spurs, and bring my sword,
Within its jewell'd casket stor'd,