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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;
Yet from a richer little gain,
But wantonness and woe.


* 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;
It had not felt the evening breeze,

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,
Shadow its beauty from the heat,

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;
Time would have soiled thy pretty leaf,

And fould thy azure brow.
Go, while no touch of thing unkind,

Thy gentle breast has riven,
And all that thou hast ever felt,

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,
So lately sunk in sinful sleep,

Forgot its better part.,
Bid him go weep, the icy breast,

Insensible to love;
Which wooes the flut'ring soul to rest,

It else could never prove.

Bid him lament the stubborn will,

Still deaf to mercy's voice,
Perversely prone to choose the ill,

And glory in its choice.
O bid him mourn the carnal mind,

Which slights the Pearl of Price;
And, slave to sin, to earth confined,

Forgets her native skies:

Yet, lest he sink beneath the fears,

That thus his peace destroy :
Go whisper, He that sows in tears,

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,
Where none will question of the thought,

Or list the bosom's tale

To hope, to dread, to wish, to doubt,

And ask of it of none
To have the heart o'erflow with love,

And nought to spend it on-
On our own bosom to receive

The coldly falling tear ;
In joy to doubt it can be joy,

That no one minds to share

To sing our hymns of praise alone,

While all is silence round,
And doubt if Heaven itself can hear

What nothing will respond.

Alone-and can I be alone,

Where all that is bespeaks
The presence and the sympathy

Of Him my spirit seeks ?
Where every thought I have ascende

Through yonder azure zone,
To Him who once on earth had thoughts,

And feelings like my own ?
Ascends! Ah nol for He is here,

My bed, my path about :
Marks every feeling as it comes,

And answers every doubt.
He lists with sympathizing love

To all my sorrow's tale ;
And speaks to me when none are Deme,

Of things he knew so.wella

To him my anxious heart refers

Each feeling as it grows;
And from his gentle voice receives

The sweetest joy it knows.

He bears the grateful song to heaven,

Which none on earth will share,
And tells me, when he comes again,

That angels sing it there.

O tell me not of solitude,

Where such sweet thoughts can bemom
My God! when most I am alone,

I seem most near to Thee.


BLIND, weak, and restless, man by nature knows,
Nor heavenly light, nor freedom, nor repose.
The feeble glimmering of reason's ray,
Serves but to shew him he hath gone astray.
His all embarked on life's uncertain sea,

At random driven on and tempest tossed ;
The fragile vessel must for ever be,

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 comes—but not with meteor light;

She speaks—but not with'syren voice;
Her counsel sets the wanderer right,

And leads him to rejoice.
While peacefully the vessel glides along,
Hers is the harp, and hers the song;

And when the winds prevail,
When the dark waters roll;

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

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