came up to him, and informed him that that tree was a security against magic, and that no wizard could come within its shade.

The mountain ash was much esteemed by the Druids, in proof of which it is found more frequently in the neighbourhood of druidical circles than any other tree. We should scarcely have expected this from the character it has since borne. Its connection (in what way we know not) with their mystic rites, renders it but an inappropriate appanage of a Christian burial ground, yet in Wales it is almost as commonly found in that sacred enclosure as the yew; and in by-gone times, on one particular day in the year, the Welsh peasantry wore a cross made of its wood.

These superstitious notions and observances are fading fast away, except in very remote places; and it is most desirable they should do so, for we would not have Reason surrender herself hoodwinked to Credulity. Yet the imaginative mind will, at times, have its own regrets that the dale, the mountain, and the forest, should thus become stripped of their legendary lore, and will enter into the feelings which prompted the poet to ask somewhat reproachfully, —

"Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven,
We know her woof, her texture, she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine
Unweave a rainbow."

Thanks to thee, Memory! we do owe thee much,
Thou faithful chronicler of by-gone years;

Yea, though thou sometimes wakest by sudden touch

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Thoughts which do lie almost too deep for tears;" For many a pleasure hast thou hoarded too,

And when the present on the sense doth pall, When Hope no longer gilds the distant view,

Then dost thou, Memory, some sweet scene recal, Not dimm'd, but soften'd by those clouds which cast A magic twilight round each vision of the past.

The past! ah, who would with its records part,
Because that some are blotted with a tear?

The smiles which made sweet sunshine in the heart,
The tones that were as music to the ear,

"The scenes where erst our careless Childhood stray'd," Or those which Youth's more fervid pleasures shared : Oh! ne'er may dark Oblivion's spells be laid

On aught so loved, so sacred, so endeared:

Let not one look, one tone, one scene be lost,

Though many a tender tear the sweet remembrance

cost.

And other joys thou hast,—a motley train —
Wherewith to while away a vacant hour;
Perchance they hold us by a slighter chain,
Yet the heart owns their fascinating power.

To those, whom Nature's sacred joys delight,
Oh! what sweet visions, Memory, canst thou bring,
Of stream, of valley, or of wood-crown'd height,

Now in morn's pearly lustre glistening,

Now in the full broad glare of noon arrayed,

And now half hid from view in evening's purple

shade.

Oh! to hold converse with the whispering trees, ·
To list the brooklet's sweet continuous chime,
The varying cadence of the evening breeze,
Or "song of early birds" at matin-time:

To view the first fair buds of Spring unclose,

Or youthful Summer round her laughing brow With looks of triumph twine the first wild rose, — To view rich Autumn bend with fruit each bough, Or ev'n stern Winter's desolate array,

His dazzling robe of snow, and frost-incrusted spray!

Now, Memory, do thine office, disenthral

From present sights and sounds mine eye and ear: To this some native melody recal,

To that some sunny landscape passing fair.

Pent in a town, where never yet the sky

the sun

Wore its own azure, or where yet Unsullied rose, lift but before mine eye

Thy magic mirror, and these vapours dun

Shall roll away, and to my glance be given

Woods, vales, and meads, outspread beneath a cloudless heaven.

One effort more, and now I seem to stand

On proud Helvellyn,-feel around me blow
The keen, fresh breeze; or tread "the silver strand"
Of the blue lake, and watch its gentle flow:

Now pierce the glen where Ayrey's torrent boils,
And mark the sunbeams dally with the spray,

H

Till o'er the troubled flood an iris smiles,
As if to charm its wrathful mood away;
Or pitying view each little flower, bright-hued,
Weeping its life away in sunless solitude.

Now glancing upward to a dizzy height,
I see the rowan fling its feathery sprays
O'er the cleft rocks, with scarlet fruit so bright,
It seems a sylvan iris to my gaze.
Fairest of trees that love the rushing stream,

The rocky glen, or mountain's shaggy side!
Ah! well, methinks, of yore might Fancy deem
No evil thing could in thy presence bide;
So pure thou look'st, so fearless, and so free,
Owning no spells thyself save beauty's witchery!

But hark! stern duty calls,

-sweet dreams, farewell! I may no longer tread the winding glen, But quit its lonely charms, its torrents' swell,

For dingy streets," and busy hum of men." Well, be it so:- though all without be drear, Within my home at least is peace and rest. Methinks the lark that springs the dawn to cheer Did never yet turn sorrowing to his nest; No! though he sings while soaring, yet his strain Is blythest when he nears his lowly home again.