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of these has wellnigh brought our mother's weakness to OR,

our eyes, and we blessed God, that though inured in all A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.

the cold and artificial habits of the common earth, we

were still capable of casting the stiff mantle of manhood No. VII.

away, and recalling to ourselves the nature of a boy who " Stulta, jocosa, canenda, dolentia, seria, sacra,

lies among the heather on a bright hill-side, and dreams En posita ante oculos, Lector amice, tuos;

of the crystal world he is about to enter. And what is Quisquis es, hic aliquid quod delectabit habebis ;

man, or the life of man, worth, if he cannot continue to Tristior an levior, selige quicquid amas."

throw, at intervals, a rainbow light over the dulness of Friends, readers, and contributors ! May has come reality? Woe unto him who scoff's at the existence, and once more !--the “ merry month of May!"-smiling in ridicules the enjoyment, of all pure and lovely emotions ! the blue skies, and on the feathery clouds, sparkling on We speak not of the boisterous mirth of nocturnal convi. the broad breast of the placid sea, and greatly rejoicing viality, though even that hath its redeeming points ;-we the hearts of all the fishes in brook, stream, lake, and speak not with the view of painting a fabled Utopia, which river. Many a pair of slippers that formed the solace of hath no being in the nature of things. All that we stand the winter fire-side, are now stowed away far back under up for, (and now that our SLIPPERS are on, we do not stand a huge chest of drawers, or behind a great trunk, or in a so high by a full inch as we did before)-all that we stand rarely-- frequented closet, covered with dust, neglected and up for is, that no poet has ever exaggerated the value and forgotten! Such is the world's gratitude. It is atten- the might of friendship, or the glory and the rapture of tive to its friends as long as they can be of any service, woman's love. Poets, with all their inspiration, have but its attachment ends with the chance of some recipro- but limited powers. They can describe but what they cal advantages arising out of the connexion. Fie on't! see, and what they feel. They may express feelings, Such is not our mode of treating the companions of by which, in the particular case alluded to, did not belong gone days;

to them, but which other circumstances either have call“ Come, ye SLIPPERS, fair and free,

ed or will call forth. Hence all the privileges they enIn Heaven worn by Euphrosyne,"

joy ;-friendship is with them a passion, and a glad

delirium ;-love, a transport and a splendour. Let it be come once more unto our willing feet, and albeit the granted that the friendship dies out, and that the love grate sparkles in the brightness of its own well-tempered may in time grow cold. It matters not; better to be metal, uneonscious of a fire,-albeit our easy-chair, into loved by them for a day, than by all the rest of mankind which we sink as into a bed of eider-down, be now for a for a hundred years! We speak no rash and hasty paratime discarded, albeit the air is soft and balmy, and dox. What is friendship? What is love? It is a sucwhen we throw open the casement of our suburban re | cession of feelings towards another, existing within the treat, the perfume of a thousand flowers hurries the sense | recesses of our own nature. To a certain extent, these into Elysium,—still we are prepared to address our Slip- feelings may be expressed by outward signs, and made Pers in the language of Goldsmith, and say,

palpable to the object beloved,—but only to a certain ex .

tent, and in noble natures to a wretchedly limited extent. “ Eternal blessings crown our earliest friend !”

By far the higher part of the mystery remains unseen. In the long, frosty, blue, coal-consuming nights of winter, The movement of the outward wheels may be discovered, how often have they met us smilingly after the fatigues but the delicate mechanism of the interior, productive of of the day, and, with the gentle pressure of mute affec- the acutest nicety of perception, is hid from the vulgar tion,-a pressure like unto that of a maiden's soft and eye-is for ever incapable of being communicated even to thrilling hand,-how often have they restored our wound the object on which all our regard is lavished. But the ed spirit to the conviction that some small portion of mechanism, or, to use a higher and a better word, the peace and happiness was still left for us in the world! soul, with its concomitant emotions, exists, though the

It was in such moments as these that the better por- weakness of the material senses cannot discover them to tions of our nature awoke within us, and all the scor others. They exist, and for ever hallow to the mind of pions of our heart laid themselves down to sleep. The the poet the subject by which such emotions are called petty cares, the contemptible jealousies, the perpetual forth. Is this a matter of little moment ? Is it a small squabbles, which agitate the literary world, and in the thing to be a poet's friend,-a poet's love ?-_not for what vortex of which even we are sometimes involved, faded he writes or says about his friendship or his love, but for away like the mist of morning upon a mountain brów, what he feels, and what he could not ever attempt either and we felt prepared to love and to be beloved by all to write or say? Words are but feeble types of thoughts. mankind. Then came tripping forth, like fairies in the They are not thoughts itself,—they are but symbols of it. moonlight, our affections and gentler feelings ;-a single Can a symbol ever be so good as an original ? Think you stanza of divine poesy,ma tone or two of pensive music, that the language of a book, or even the syllables which perchance one of our old accustomed melodies, loved drop from the tongue, are equally fervent and expressive from childhood, and loved now a thousand times more as the throbbings of the unseen heart? or as those lights because those whom we love, love them too, the glance and shades of feeling, which cause neither a thrilling nor of a kind eye,-the sound of a familiar voice, each or all I a throbbing, which pass like a sun-blink, or the reflection

of a cloud upon the water, but which stamp the character whatever you have been doing, we have a regard for thee. and elevate the individual into something far different from But if thou art a man, then, O man ! away with thee to the multitude ? ( ve men of genius! wear SLIPPERS, the country for as long a period as thou canst-a day, a and commune with your own hearts, and be still. week, or a month. Thou knowest not how fresh and

lovely it looks at this moment. Couldst thou but get Not having read over the above paragraphs, we shall one glimpse of the blossoins upon the cherry-trees, we not be too positive, but we are certainly inclined to think | should have a greater respect for thee. Thou smilest with they contain some very splendid writing. A set of | a grave serenity, and thinkest to thyself—“ I am a lawyer, dolts will assert that it is vain in us to say so. Nay, and lo! I wear a wig; what have I to do with the blossoms it has even reached our ears, that the Editor IN HIS on the cherry-trees ?” But again, we say unto thee, O man! SLIPPERS is thought at times rather conceited and egotisti- fling thy wig to the four winds of heaven, take unto thyself cal! Good God! (as Mr Brougham says in the House the feelings of a boy-a rosy blossom newly shaken from of Commons when he wants to be very eloquent,) what the tree of life and away with thee to the blessed green an idea is this to enter into the mind of a rational hu- fields. We should have rejoiced to have taken thee with man being! Because we sometimes make our own popu us to Roseneath, that fairest peninsula in the Firth of larity the subject of a good-humoured joke, must we be Clyde, which we visited but a few short days ago. We therefore classed with the petty coxcombs of this and should have rejoiced to point out to thee the beauties of former ages ? By Jupiter Ammon! and likewise by Helensburgh, and the loveliness of the Gair Loch, with Jupiter Tonans, and also by the Capitoline Jove ! the day | its towering amphitheatre of hills in the background ; nor will come when we shall shake that notion out of the should we have asked thee to have thrown thyself after minds of our worst foes! Proud of being the Editor of us, when we were foolish enough to tumble out of the the Edinburgh Literary Journal, forsooth! What is it, steam-boat into the water, for well we know that it is after all, but a mere sixpenny periodical, very neatly only the ignoble and the undistinguished who die the printed, to be sure, by Ballantyne, and in very universal | death of a blind puppy,—therefore we smiled in the water circulation and esteem, but still only a weekly Gazette of with a calm smile, and, after a brief space, regained the sixteen pages? Heaven and earth! who is it fancies that boat. periodical writing of any kind would satisfy our ambi. Reader! perchance thou art a lady! If so, Heaven tion? Look at the editors of all the periodicals, they bless thee! Art thou fond of flowers ? Thou art perhaps are mere nobodies, unless they have done something dis- the lady who wrote the lines in the style of Miss Landon tinct and apart from contributing anonymous articles to on a tuft of early violets, which are as follows: Reviews, Magazines, or Literary Journals. Does Lock

“ The first that grew this season! hart owe his reputation to that most respectable and heavy I have been miles for them ! How many miles ? concern the Quarterly Review ? What has Jeffrey made

Just two !" by the Edinburgh, except that he fretted his hour upon the stage, and then departed? Who ever thinks of Campbell Well, it must have been a pleasant walk, whether short as the editor of the New Monthly, with its Cockney or long. Have you a passion for primroses? Here they sketches and little bits of unreadable trash of poetry? are in living groups, most lovely and gentle things! Do Will not a single page of the “ Isle of Palms," or the you like cowslips, whose perfume is like the beautiful « City of the Plague,” or “ Lights and Shadows,” or thought of an innocent girl? If so, there is a bank all something he will yet write, do more to perpetuate the golden with them. But are not all flowers alike? They name of John Wilson than all Blackwood's Magazine put are nature's eternal jewels, and their odour oppresses the together? Is Dr Bowring better known as a poetical heart with a joy that weighs it down almost as if it were translator from the modern languages, or as the conductor a sorrow. We bate a lady who looks coldly upon flowers; of that able and suspicious review the Westminster ? As we love her best who is affected by them even unto sad for the scribblers in Frazer's Magazine, the Monthly, and ness. others, which nobody ever sees or hears of, unless through Come, sit thee down beneath this pleasant tree, those the medium of a newspaper advertisement, their very tender and feathery leaves quiver in the passing zephyr, names are unknown; and though they were, they would and we shall furnish thee with an hour's reading that not live one week longer than their own periodicals, which will make thee remember with delight the Editor IN VIS will be short enough. The Edinburgh Literary Journal | SLIPPERS all the rest of thy days. Here is a scrap, in the ranks, we believe, higher than any other weekly miscel.. first place, which we shrewdly suspect was written by lany now in existence; but what kind of satisfaction is ourselves as we walked in the garden yesternight, and it to know this, when we also know that we could, if we had our attention attracted by the melancholy object which chose, rise to as great a height above the Journal, as the | forms the subject of our poem. Journal is above Cobbett's Register, or the Cork Quarterly

TO A WITHERED CURRANT BUSH, Magazine ? Vanity, indeed! We shall see, before five years elapse, whether the Editor In His Slippers is a per Wbat is the reason, thoų currant bush, son to be sneezed at in this way. The Edinburgh Lite That there is not a leaf upon thee, rary Journal, like a rock rolled from the top of a moun Although there are leaves on the gooseberry bushes, tain, shall go on to prosper with increased celerity and And leaves on the old apple-tree? quickly accumulating influence, but it shall be confessed, ere long, to be only the smallest gem in our coronet. So Art thou asleep in thy winter sleep, much for egotism. Let the small fry sneer and snarl if Or art thou a stubborn thing they will. We have said it.

That will not be woo'd by the April sun, Revert we once more to the pleasant fact, that this is Nor the breath of the gentle spring ? the first morning of May. Where hast thou been, dear reader ?-away up on the mountain side, gathering the The heart's-ease looks up, with a smile, in thy face, sweetest and the brightest dew of all the year, or down And the primrose is silent with joy, by the stream, catching a score of the biggest trout it And the butterfly flutters from flower to flower, boasts, or lying in bed, amidst a profusion of shattered Like a happy, but truant boy. dreams dancing round thee like motes in the sunbeam, till the breakfast bell rang for the last time, and you The blackbird is singing among the boughs, knew that all the rest would be in the parlour before you, And the lark 'neath the rainbow's zone; and that the eggs would be cold, and the Literary Journal All nature is full of the spirit of joy, half read before you got down? Well, never mind; But thou art dejected alone!

Good lack! I hope thou’rt not dead, currant bush, nie Dundee." As we are desirous that our readers should For a doleful thing 'twould be,

not exist a month longer without unravelling the wanTo have no red currants when August comes,

derings of this princely stream, we are glad to present And no red jelly at tea !

them with the following graphic sketch of its beauties by

one who knows them well. 'Twas pleasant to pluck the luxuriant strings Of the ruby beads that hung

THE BEAUTIES OF THE TAY, AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. In tempting clusters, ruddy and ripe,

Where's the coward that would not dare Thy fresh green boughs among.

To fight for such a land !-Narmion.

Is there a Briton who has visited the Alpine scenery O! never glanced gems upon beauty's neck

of Switzerland, the Italian lakes, or the banks of the With a richer glow of light,

Rhine, and wbo yet remains ignorant of the beauties of Than the coral fruit upon thee, currant bush,

the first of British rivers ? Let him take the earliest opWhen autumn's skies were bright.

portunity of correcting his omission, and of making him.

self acquainted with the loveliness of the Tay, and its tri. And I mind me well, six months ago,

butary streams. How gladsome it was to see

If he follows my advice, he will convey himself, or The busy group of sisters small,

1.foot, should he really wish to enjoy his tour, to the comWho prattled and danced round thee.

fortable inn at Tyndrum, which I would recommend as And surely thou wert right pleased, currant bush,

the starting-post. Here he may watch the infant Tay To be rifled by such sweet fingers;

struggling through the wild and romantic solitudes of And of them, perchance, 'midst thy withering boughs,

Strathfillan, and coming into existence, as it were, under

the guardianship of the saint, whose memory is still pre. Some faint remembrance lingers.

served in the recesses of Breadalbane. Poor bush! I pity thee much ;--and more

Proceeding eastward from Strathfillan, the traveller

gradually finds himself in Glendochart. In the upper That thy fate has a touch of my own; The April sun now shines on us both,

part of this glen, there is much variety in the scenery ;

the woods of Innerardoran, Lochdochart, with its island But not as it once has shone!

and ruined castle, and the stupendous masses of Benmore, In the whole range of creation, there is nothing more by which the valley is bounded on the right, combining truly beautiful than a noble river ; and what country to produce a very diversified landscape. The lower part more rich in rivers than Scotland ? There is the Forth, of Glendochart is more monotonous in its character, but which takes its rise from a small clear pool at the foot of | the eye is at length relieved by the striking, yet simple, Benlomond, and, after winding, for miles, like a silver grandeur of Macnab's burying-ground, with its dark grove thread through the wild and beautiful scenery of Stir- of pine-trees standing in the midst of the foaming torlingshire, expands below Alloa into a broad and majestic rent. After passing the bridge of Killin, the rude but sheet of water, rolling on slowly and silently to the Ger- sublime scenery of Glendochart is almost instantly exman ocean. There is the Clyde, glittering in silver cas- changed for one of the most lovely landscapes which can cades through Lanarkshire, sweeping past Glasgow, gi- be seen in Scotland. In front are the beautiful grounds ving beauty to Dunglass and Erskine House, laving the of Kinnell, and beyond them Loch Tay, winding to the deep foundations of Dunbarton rock, supplying water to eastward, round the base of the lofty Benlawers. On a hundred lochs, and at length mingling with the mighty the right, the eye is arrested by gently-swelling banks, Atlantic below the Cumbray Isles between the peaks of clothed with rich plantations, among which, and looking Ailsa and of Jura. There is the Tweed, the very Avon to the lake, is the delightful residence of Auchmore. On of our land, with its classic tributaries, the Gala Water the left, the Lochay slowly winds its way to join the and the Teviot, whose “ wild and willowed shore” lives lake through the gorge of a valley, almost unequalled in in immortal song. There is the Esk, or rather the Esks beauty, overhung by the magnificent woods which crown - the north and the south-traciog their origin up to the heights of Finlarig, with the frowning ridge of Ben the Grampian Hills, and, after finding their way, by Cailliach in the back-ground. The Lochay is the first different channels, through their native shire of Angus, tributary of any consequence received by the Tay; and meeting for the first and last time, just as they are pass- in the lower part of its course, it forms a remarkable coning into their common grave in the neighbourhood of trast to the fierce impetuosity which characterises the de. Montrose. There are the Don and the Dee, the noblest scent of the Dochart. of our Highland streams, whose course lies among rocks, Perhaps it is owing to the extreme richness and variety and moors, and glens, and heathy hills, softening the of the scenery at the west end of Loch Tay, that the midstern aspect of the mountains of Mar Forest, and giving dle part of this fine sheet of water does not possess such a softer beauty to the vale of Braemar. There are the attractions as might be expected ; but, as if to compensate Nith and the Annan, rolling on in placid quiet to the for this temporary and comparative deficiency, (for it is boisterous Solway-the streams which Allan Cunning- only comparative,) the eastern extremity appears to vie ham loves, and which we love too for his sake. There with the west in beauty, although the character of each is the Devron, a river which hath for us a thousand is essentially different; that of the former being, perhappy associations, awaking at every turn the romance haps, more artificial, but not the less pleasing on that acof youth, the chief ornament of Banffshire, making lux- count, while that of the latter is altogether more wild and uriant the sweet valley of Forglen, sweeping round the natural. foot of the green hill on whose brow stands the cottage | Following the course of the Tay as it issues, now a of Eden, winding among the woods of Mount Coffre, noble stream, from the lake, we pass the princely sleeping in liquid crystal under the bridge of Alva, and grounds of Taymouth, and find ourselves in the finely finally meandering on through the noble parks of Duff wooded valley of Strath Tay, studded on every side with House, as if loth to leave them for the rude billows of various ancient castles and modern country seats. Here, the Murray Frith. And last, though not least, there is on the right, the Lyon joins the Tay. Glenlyon, a very the Tay, taking its source in the distant mountains of long and narrow valley, running from the most western Breadalbane, and, after gliding under the nine-arched part of Breadalbane, nearly parallel to Glendochart and bridge of Perth, enriching the Carse of Gowrie, and flow. | Loch Tay, contains, within itself, some fine specimens of ing through a Caledonian Arcadia, until it swells into a Highland scenery; and the banks of the Lyon at Fortinfrith, and ceases to exist " betwixt St Johnston and bon- gal, where the vale widens, previous to the junction of the Lyon and the Tay, may, for romantic beauty, challenge a ted from that town. Even with the full recollection of comparison with any similar scene in the island. Fur-Campbell's magnificent address to the Rainbow, we fear ther down the strath, on the right, the Tay receives the not to present our readers with the following lines by Mr waters which have hurried to join it over the rocks and John Nevay on the same subject. They came to us with among “ the birks” of Aberfeldy. At length we reach the letter which we subjoin : Logierait, at the junction of the Tay and the Tummel.

Forfar, March 17th, 1830. The situation of this ancient residence of the Earls of

Sir,- If you condescend to look at these verses, I deAtholl is magnificent beyond description—just what we

voutly pray the Muses that it may be in that merry, but should expect in the castle of a Highland baron of old,

sacred hour, when the tragi-comic drama of poets and guarded by two broad and rapid rivers, and at the same

rhymesters is performed, wherein some, for their intrutime watching, with jealous care, two of the principal en

sion “ behind the scenes," receive a mortal drubbing, trances to the Highlands. The course of the Tummel is,

whilst others, for their fair and honourable wooing, are comparatively speaking, so little known, that it merits a

wedded each to the Muse he loves, by the power of your more particular description.

immortal SLIPPERS. I am, sir, your very humble serThe traveller who has journeyed from Dalmally or


J, NEVAS, Tyndrum to the King's-house, on his way to Glencoe, will recollect, between King's-house and Inveroran, a

TO THE RAINBOW. black, dismal-looking moor, with several small lakes scat

Ethereal child of dark and bright, tered through it, stretching far to the east, and bounded

Clasping the heaven as in delight, on the south and north by lofty mountains. That desolate

While in thy soft and balmy arms moor is the moor of Rannoch, and from these lakes a river

Glad Nature smiles with fresher charms, proceeds, to lose itself at last in Loch Rannoch, which

And man and beast, and tree and flower, receives also, near the same place, the waters that flow from Loch Ericht. Loch Rannoch is the least known,

Feast on thy shining and thy shower;

Thou coronal of summer's sky, but not the least beautiful, of the Perthshire lakes ;-the

What art thou to poetic eye?view to the south, when travelling along the northern

An arch tri-coloured, rich and rare, bank of the lake, is particularly fine ; for, besides that

Whence hallow'd saints and seraphs fair, the southern shores are clothed with a great variety of beautiful wood, there is to be seen on the rising grounds

In joyous bands, may view delighted behind, the remains of one of the ancient pine forests of

The genial earth with heaven united ;Scotland, while, at a greater distance, Schiehallion rears

The grand harp of the Deity

With music in its chords for me, his beautifully conical peak to complete the landscape.

Still pouring from its golden strings Issuing from Loch Rannoch, at the village of Kinloch,

An anthem to the King of kings; the river proceeds through the district of Bunrannoch to Loch Tummel, exhibiting, in its course, all the beauties

While earth sends up her breath of balm which are usually found in Highland rivers. Soon after

To mingle with the holy psalm ;leaving this lake, and foaming down Strath Tummel in

The matchless banner-flag of Him

Who quell'd the rebel seraphim, a number of cascades, it is joined at Faskally, by the united waters of the Garry and the Tilt, after they have

And in its stream of glowing hues, escaped from the romantic Pass of Killiecrankie, and a

Inwoven the verse of the holy Muse : little further down it meets the Tay at Logierait.

Love, and peace, and felicity, From this latter place the majestic river rolls along,

Follow ye Christ, and these will be, through a succession of splendid landscapes, to Dunkeld,

When sun and stars have pass'd away, where it is joined by the Brand. The scenery here is

Your portion in eternal day." too well known to require description.

Rainbow ! thou art like the rapt bard's thought, It will be sufficient to mention the names of the re

Sublime 'midst the light and cloud of his lot, maining rivers which join the Tay before it reaches the

The radiant Iris that spans his soul, sea. These are, on the left, the Isla and the Ardle, and,

In a heaven of fancy from pole to pole ; on the right, the Amond and the Earn. Were I to at

A thing all beauty, and softness, and fire, tempt to describe the scenery on each of these branches,

Where hangs in glory his own loved lyre. it would sa pour of repetition, as all Highland straths and

We are inclined to think that the living poets of the glens bave a certain resemblance to one another, although, “ west countrie" have been brought into notice principally doubtless, each has its own peculiar beauties. I shall, I through the medium of the Literary Journal. A few of therefore, content myself with drawing the attention of

them write occasionally elsewhere, but never so well as the stranger to the situation of Perth, as seen from the when they write for us. Their efforts seem to be paraheights to the southward of that town. When gazing onlysed unless destined to come into contact with the gethis scene of matchless beauty, containing all the various nial light which emanates from the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPfeatures that a painter could desire, from the rich culti

PERS. From the many compositions which have reached vation in the neighbourhood of the town, to the blue

us of late from the western shores, we proceed to select a Grampians in the distance, with the Scottish Tiber roll.

few with which we think the public will be pleased. ing at my feet, I found myself involuntarily spouting | We have already introduced Mr William Mayne to our the stirring lines which I have placed at the head of this I readers. We think the following one of his most sucpaper ; and I would now, in the words of the same poet, | cessful efforts, poetical as they all are : ask him who has surveyed, as I have done, the beauties of the Tay and its Tributaries, commencing with the rugged fastness of Breadalbane and the desolate bleakness of the moor of Rannoch, and ending with Perth and

By William Mayne. the Carse of Gowrie,

Oh, how the fancy loves to brood “ Where shall he find in foreign land"

Upon those islands of the sea,

Where nature dwells in solitude,
scenery to surpass that to which I have thus feebly at-
tempted to introduce him ?

Amid her own fair imagery;

Where the sweet earth for ever blooms
There is nothing which pleases as more than to meet Among the purest of perfumes;
with a fresh poetical mind. There is a poetical mind in Where the rich fruits adorn the bough,
Forfar, else the following verses could never have emana And bend it gracefully below,


That on the soft grass they may lean,
And blend their crimson with its green;
Where scarce a sound is ever heard,

Save some sweet insect's hum at even,
Or the soft warble of a bird,

Or the most tender sighs of heaven;
Where, on each mild and blissful scene,
The tread of man has never been,
To make its healthy glow depart,
And fix foul cankers in its heart :
Oh, how the soul would swiftly tree

To one of those delightful isles,
And leave the deadly misery

Which round man's dwelling darkly coils; Where sorrow's wail, so wild and drear, Would never thrill upon the ear; Where we would never know again The world's neglect-the world's disdain.

Then, after journeying a time

Along a fair and flowery shore,
Are cleansed of that dark lake's slime,

And brightly wander evermore.
Oh, we were happy! full of bright
And pleasant thoughts, from morn till night;
We seem'd like that pure family

Which God first planted on the earth, Whose days as sweetly journey'd by

As though they own’d a heavenly birth.

Alas! alas! who could have thought

That island's breast, which seem'd so fair, Was with the earth-curse deeply fraught,

That death in secret revell’d there?
Who could have thought, who saw it lie
Upon the sea so peacefully,
Appearing, through the calm moonlight,
Like a soft slumbering creature white,
That it was doom'd to pass away,
As from a lake the April ray?

One of those islands was my own,
Placed in a mild and friendly zone;
In it I found that mellow peace,
And joy, and sacred fruitfulness,
Which I had thought was never given
To any but the loved of Heaven.
Nor was I all alone,-forsaken
Of those dear beings who awaken
Those fond affections in the soul,
Which bend it under their control,
And make the loveliest places lie
More dearly beauteous on the eye!
For from the far-off shore I brought
A gentle maid of kindred thought,
Who was content to tread with me
Unto the world's extremity,
In search of some secluded spot,
Where peace would bless our earthly lot.
One of those islands was our own,
And there we nestled all alone;
Nor was the world so far away
From where our lovely island lay,
But that we could perceive, when on
The heaven day's clearest radiance shone,
Beyond the dark and potent tide,
Which spread around us calm and wide,
Its outline on the sky defined,
Soft as a shadow of the mind.
And often, at the close of even,
When sleep's soft shades embraced the heaven,
Would we forsake our cheerful toil,
And from some fair spot of our isle
Look with a long and ardent view
Upon its dim and distant hue,
Until we had forgot that hoar
And helpless misery roam'd it o'er,
And that it ever drove us forth
As sickly creatures, nothing worth.

'Twas evening, and sleep's gentle wing
Was o'er us softly hovering ;
But ere the middle of the night,
Among my dreams so sweet and bright,
There came a hoarse and heavy sound,
As if the sea had burst its bound,
And was on-rolling, fierce in wrath,
Shattering all objects from its path.
I started up, confused and wild,
And, horror-smitten, back recoil'd;
I saw our dwelling's outward wall
A moment reel, then forward fall,
As if to ope a fearful path
For the dark messenger of death.
I saw no more; one moment o'er

My wife my arm was fondly thrown, The next I heard the ocean's roar,

And its dread billows sweeping on, And felt the waters round me chill, And strangling me in their fierce will, And spurning me their wrath before,

Like him who spurns a worthless foe, And growling out a jocund roar,

As up I bounded from their flow. Yet, in that black tempestuous sea, My soul was wound to agony, At thought of them, the loved, the fair, Now rudely driven-I knew not where! And round my arms I wildly flung The heavy-swelling waves among, In hope they might be strongly bound My wife or helpless children round. But there were none save I amid Those mighty waters wild and dread! I dash'd my head above the waves, Which o'er me hung like moving graves, And look'd a moment through the night,

To where I fancied was the isle ; But, ah! its fair peculiar light

No longer shed its blessed smile! Nothing I saw, around, around, But waves in everlasting bound.

Three children grew our steps around,

As fair as aught which blooms below, And from their guileless hearts we found

Still sweeter streams of gladness flow : They grew around their mother's breast,

And clung there, like the smiles of morn, Which on the rose's soft leaves rest,

And even its loveliness adorn. How oft I fancied they would spring ’Neath Nature's tender cherishing, And other feelings never know, Than those she kindly might bestow; And though our bosoms were their source,

Be like those streams so calm and clear, Which first begin their quiet course - From a dark lake, unblest and drear,

I know no more, for frenzy cast

Its friendly darkness o'er my mind, And hid the billow and the blast

The ocean had in store behind. 'Twas not the lashing wave o'ercame The ruling spirit of my frame, No, 'twas the agonizing thought Which there, even there, with madness sinote, That those, my joy, my life, my light! Would bloom no more before my sight,

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