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the Cock of the woods, various sorts of Falcons, Buzzards, and even Eagles have been observed. Loch Ness, as I before stated, never freezes in winter; and in that season presents a very animated picture, in consequence of the numerous tribes of aquatic fowl, which seek support there. Fish is very abundant; most of my readers have, I presume, heard of Scotch salmon and oysters. The number of islands which crowd the western coast of Scotland, present much sublime scenery; but as I shall consider these in a future paper, I shall take no further notice of them at present. I need hardly inform my readers that Scotland's heroes and bards will take rank even with those of England : and the education which is given to even the poorest, renders it less wonderful, that so many Scotch peasants have distinguished themselves by their genius, or their mechanical skill. Burns, Tannakill, Fergusson, among the lower orders, and Black, Stewart, Scott, and Playfair, among the higher, are a full proof of the native genius of the Scots. We are accustomed to think lightly of Scotland, because the peasants speak chiefly Gaelic, live on oat cakes, and run about with naked feet. Yet let us remember that the poorest Scotchman would sooner die than come to the parish ;* that crime is far less prevalent among them than in England, and that in short, there is more truth in Cowper's lines, than our national pride would lead us to suppose.
To whose lean country, much disdain
We English often show;
* The following anecdote was related in Mrs. Grant's residence in the Highlands, I think. A poor carrier lived near Mrs. G., whose only support was his horse. The animal died, and the man was nearly starved. The overseer heard of this, and came to offer kind assistance. “No, thank you, sir," said the poor fellow, with honest pride, “it is not come to that neither, for I have 8d. and the skin of the horse."
THE FLOWER OF TO-DAY. I saw him whet his scythe anew,
I saw him lower the blade; The bright beam glittering in the herb,
The moving steel betrayed
The tall, ripe grass, that many a day
And many a night had grown, Through heat and cold its seed matur'd,
Came in its fulness down
The tender blade of yester morn,
Born of the summer shower, Fell in the freshness of its green,
Boastless of seed or flower.
And there was one in midst of all,
A blossom scarcely blownWhich never till that day had op'd
Its bosom to the sun.
The colouring of its bud was like
The azure blue of Heaven, When, faintly mingled, it receives
The'vermil tint of even.
And Oh! it was a lovely thing;
It had not lived an hour;
Or tasted of the shower.
The mower did not raise his scythe
when it swept that way The weapon
did not overpass, The flower of to-day.
I sighed-But O, had it stayed behind,
When all about it died Had it stay'd to blossom there alone,
When all was gone beside.
What had there been upon the waste
To guard its tender form,
Or hide it from the storm ?
No, pretty flower; I do not wish
That thou wert growing still ; The shower thou hast not felt is cold,
The evening breeze is chill.
The day-star does not always rise
So bright, so pure as now;
And fould thy azure brow.
Thy gentle breast has riven,
Is one bright beam from heaven.
WHY WEEPEST THOU? O ask not one, whose heart is drear,
Whose fragile bark is driven, By wave on wave of earthly care,
Almost from hope of Heav'n.
O ask not him, why he should weep,
Whose wayward treacherous heart,
Forgot its better part.,
Insensible to love;
It else could never prove.
Bid him lament the stubborn will,
Still deaf to mercy's voice,
And glory in its choice.
Which slights the Pearl of Price;
Forgets her native skies:
Yet, lest he sink beneath the fears,
That thus his peace destroy :
Shall surely reap in joy.
We will come unto him and make our abode with him.
ALONE—what is't to be alone ?
It is to think, to feel,
Or list the bosom's tale
To hope, to dread, to wish, to doubt,
And ask of it of none
And nought to spend it on-
The coldly falling tear ;
That no one minds to share
To sing our hymns of praise alone,
While all is silence round,
What nothing will respond.
Alone-and can I be alone,
Where all that is bespeaks
Of Him my spirit seeks ?
Through yonder azure zone,
And feelings like my own ?
My bed, my path about :
And answers every doubt.
To all my sorrow's tale ;
Of things he knew so.wella
To him my anxious heart refers
Each feeling as it grows;
The sweetest joy it knows.
He bears the grateful song to heaven,
Which none on earth will share,
That angels sing it there.
O tell me not of solitude,
Where such sweet thoughts can bemom
I seem most near to Thee.
BLIND, weak, and restless, man by nature knows,
At random driven on and tempest tossed ;
Without a compass or a pilot, lost. A tide of sorrow bears him to the grave, Nor hath he power to repel the wave, Breaking with mighty force upon that shore, Where the frail bark once cast, its freight is seen no more.
Amidst the elemental storm,
Behold an angel form.
She speaks—but not with'syren voice;
And leads him to rejoice.
And when the winds prevail,
She holds the helm, she furls the sail, And casts her anchor out to stay the soul. She bids the watchful mariner descry Dangers unnoticed by the careless eyes