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 dreadful 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,' She paddles her white canoe. "And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds- And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the white canoe of my dear?" He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 66 Quick over its surface play'd- Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark, But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, And paddle their white canoe. 1 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle 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 playfulness 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: 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. To study the chemistry of nature, her grand but simple secrets, 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. THE FAITHFUL BIRD. THE greenhouse is my summer seat; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song H COWPER. They sang as blithe as finches sing, But Nature works in every breast The open windows seem'd to invite So, settling on his cage, by play, Nor would he quit that chosen stand, Oh ye, who never taste the joys Blush, when I tell you how a bird CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM. Pa'tri-ot-ism, n. (L. patria). COWPER. An-tic'i-pate, v. (L. ante, capio). PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown, And chas'd them up to Heav'n. Their ashes flew He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free, 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,2 the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma.3 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; forlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead 1 See Judges xvi. 7, &c. The But here I must stream and the Why delays my Here is the rock, me to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! 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, O 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, O 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. SCENE-Dunsinane. SHAKSPERE. 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 Till famine, and the ague, eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, |