relaxation of winter's iron rigour might, indeed, reward his curious explorations-a scentless violet, cerulean as the sky and of comfort as cold-a gilded celandine-a precious primrose-but save in the yellowing catkins of the sallow, that lure abroad from its mossy retreat the mountain bee with sonorous hum, the unfurnished bowers of the woodland are solitary and cheerless, and present few attractions to a sojourner that has

But the days will come-are already maturing to their speedy developement, when the forest's undersward, shall grow verdant and assume beauty-and whiten and blush with blending blossoms-when the trees shall bend beneath a fragrant oppression of foliage and bloom; and life, melody and enjoyment shall again visit its deserted haunts. Then, diffusing "a sober certainty of waking bliss," over the familiar landscape where "every prospect pleases," will awake the cuckoo's gentle note.

The note that best the tale can tell,

Unto the past so true :

And while it paints the absent well,
Unfolds the future too.

Telling that healing prospects smile,

For every earthly gloom;

That Hope will climb the funeral pile,

And point beyond the tomb.

Such an epoch as the calling time of this favourite bird, could not fail to have its "trivial fond records" and concomitant superstitious figments. It is a common belief, that if the circumstances, in which its note is first heard for the season, be attended to, they afford unerring signs, whereby the secrets of a man's destiny, for the ensuing year, may be disclosed. In whatever direction he may be looking, when its tones arrest him, there will he be on the anniversary of that day next year. If he be gazing on the ground-he is warned of an untimely fate. If he has money in his pocket, it is an omen, that he shall not lack; if penniless, that the cruise of oil shall not be replenished, and that losses and disappointments shall be his lot.* Such, however, is the benevolent constitution of the human mind, such its hope for better things-the token of its invaluable worththe pledge of its immortality-that it rarely fails to discover, even in

* "If you have money in your pockets," say the Germans, "when the Cuckoo first cries, all will go well during the year; and if you were fasting, you will be hungry the whole year.”— Grimm's Deutche Mythologie.

VOL. III.

the most despondent circumstances, prestiges of a bright futurity. No wonder then, that the Cuckoo's call, as the herald of good news, finds an echo in every bosom, and that, with eager anticipations, young and old are prepared to welcome its renewal.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery.

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet,
Can lie upon the plain,

And listen till I do beget

News from Northumberland.

A SONG OF THE REBELLION OF 1569.
FROM JAMIESON'S POPULAR BALLADS.

OU whisperinge fellowes, that walke every wheare,
Now clau your old elbowes, and skratch up your

I will tell ye, for troth, what newes I heare:
The Bull of the North is a frayd of the Bear.
This geare goythe well, and better it shall,
For triall will tell the treason of Ball.

The moone and the star are fallen so at stryfe,
I never knewe warre so strange in my lyfe;
And all is longe of a Babylon beaste,
That hath a thowsand heddes at the leaste.

This geare, &c.

What made the Murrian's Hed so stoute,
To seeke the Sheafe of Arroes out?

A morryon of that hed! the Northe may

saie ;

That hed from the boddye must needes a waie.

This geare, &c.

The Lambe, that knewe this newes before,

Did bid the Lyon begin to rore;

The Lyon, that could not then refraine,
Did byd the Beare go shake his chayne.
This geare, &c.

Whose shakinge suche a shryll did yelde,
That every beaste did flye the feelde;
Which served and shadowed under the moone.
And thowght full littell to shrinke so soone.
This geare, &c.

And to Sainte Androwe be they gone,
With very harde shyfte to make theare moane;
And som of theare ladies lefte behinde,
With very small wages under the wynde.
This geare, &c.

But I marvel yet of Ser John Shorne,
Whether he and the blessed masse be borne:
It weare a mery thinge to be knowen
Wheare he doth make his alter-stone.
This geare, &c.

The Cropyerde Fox, that this begon,
And made his brablinge to be don,
Is curst of many a mother's sonne;

And I pray ye, what hath his coriage wonne?
This geare, &c.

Yet, when the newes shall come to Roome,
I knowe they will not sticke to presume,

To wright to many Christian kings;
They have, as they woulde, almaner of things.
This geare, &c.

Why walk ye not by three and three,
In Polles, as ye weare wonte to be,

And saye, as you were wonte to do,
"I hold you a crowne it is not trewe?"
This geare, &c.

Of manie great helpes you bragge and bost,
Besydes Sir John, that carieth the hooste,
Lyke unbelievers, as you bee,

You bragge of nothinge that you see.
This geare, &c.

You bragge not of the Almightie's name;
You bragge not of your prince's fame;
You bragge of never a faithfull knight,
That for his country goeth to fight.
This geare, &c.

You bragge to see your countrey spoylde;
You bragge to see poore men begilde;
You bragge to see your brother's blood ;-
I pray tell me if these be good.

This geare, &c.

And as ye are of perverst minde,
You swere, and stare, and wilbe blinde;
Wher in ye shewe, that faithlesse ye
Have no good power to here and see.
This geare, &c,

Where be the northern idiotes fled,

That were by your devices led?

They had bin better they had kept their bed;
You cannot repeale that you have spred.
This geare. &c.

I thinke by this you do beleve,

The devill him selfe laughes in his sleeve,
That yet so many of Balaham's markes
Are still his true and faithful clarkes.
This geare, &c.

And, to be short, I see and knowe

Howe manie a one them selves bestowe

ILLIAM ROBSON, a severe poetical satirist, and author of several political pamphlets and miscellaneous essays, and the publisher of "The Poetical Works of the celebrated and ingenious Thomas Whittell," printed at Newcastle in 1815, was for some time schoolmaster at Cambo; but removed to Morpeth about 1807, where he died in 1821. Robson had long expected to receive the original manuscript of Whittell's poems from Mr. Robert Codling, a native of Whelpington, who had settled as a planter at Rock Spring, Rio Bueno, Jamaica; but was surprised to find that the person to whose care it was entrusted had confided it