But the shadow of that pile of slaughter
Lies breasted on the stirless water,
As if no mortal hand had blent
Its old, unearthly lineament.

A wizard tarn is grey Loch Skene! There are two islands sown within; Both are like, as like the other, As brother to his own twin-brother; Only a birch bends o'er the one, Where the kindred isle hath none, The tresses of that weeping tree Hang down in their humility.

'Tis whisper'd of an eyrie there, Where a lonely eagle pair

In the silver moonlight came,
To feed their young by the holy flame;
And at morn they mounted far and far.
Towards the last surviving star.
Only the forsaken nest

Sighs to the sea-winds from the west,
As if they told in their wandering by,
How the rightful lord of its sanctuary
Mourneth his fallen mate alone
On a foamy Atlantic stone.

Never bath the quiet shore
Echoed the fall of silver oar,

Nor the waters of that tarn recoil'd
From the light skiff gliding wild;
But the spiritual cloud that lifted
The quiet moon, and dimly drifted
Away in tracery of snow,

Threw its image on the pool below,
Till it glided to the shaded shore,
Like a bark beneath the moveless oar.

Out at the nethermost brink there gushes A playful stream from its ark of rushes, It leaps like a wild fawn from the mountains, Nursing its life with a thousand fountains, It kisses the heath-flower's trembling bell, And the mosses that love its margin well.

Fairy beings, one might dream, Look from the breast of that silver stream, Fearless, holy, and blissful things, Flashing the dew-foam from their wings, As they glide away, away for ever, Borne sea-ward on some stately river.

That silver brook, it windeth on

Over slabs of fretted stone,
Till it cometh to the forehead vast

Of those gorgon rocks, that cast

Their features many a fathom under,

And, like a launch through surge of thunder,
From the trembling ledge it flings
The treasures of a thousand springs;
As if to end their blissful play,
And throw the spell of its life away.

Like a pillar of Parian stone That in some old temple shone,

Or a slender shaft of living star,

Gleams that foam-fall from afar;

But the column is melted down below

Into a gulf of seething snow,

And the stream steals away from its whirl of hoar, As bright and as lovely as before.

There are rainbows in the morning sun, Many a blushing trembling one,

Arches of rarest jewellery,
Where the elfin fairies be,

Through the glad air dancing merrily.

Such is the brook, so pure, so glad, That sparkled high and bounded mad, From the quiet waters, where It took the form of a thing so fair.

Only it mocks the heart within, To wander by the wild Loch Skene, At cry of moorcock, when the day Gathers his legions of light away,

For the sadness of a fallen throne Reigns when the golden sun hath gone,

And the tarn and the hills and the misted stream Are shaded away to a mournful dream.

EXTRACTS FROM MR KILLEGREW HIS COMMON

PLACE-BOOK.

1658. The latter end of this year my moments were so little at mine own disposall, (being occupy'd with divers spirituall and crying avocations,) that I have not been able to keep pace with mine intentions, touching the regular keeping of this our ephemeris, (or journall,) which is much to be regretted, as the tymes were marked by many and momentous incidents which I should else have related. I could have sett forth how the Protectour Mr Oliver Cromwel deceased suddenly, and how an exceeding high wynd (by many liken'd unto the whirlwynd which took up Elijah) was heard during that night, being made palpable by its effects, (seeing that it blew the weathercocks off the Whyte Tower, as also damaging somewhat the summitt of Paul's, together with the steeple of Bowe Church); moreover, how many other portents" and prodigious omens were multiply'd throughout all the land.

*

[Here follow about two hundred pages of Mr K.'s diary, which the majority of our readers will not think interesting. In fact, they are made up of detached comments on public matters, and extracts from his sermons, which appear about this time to have been highly popular. Many pages are occupied, also, by a somewhat protracted narrative of his sufferings during a tedious illness, which, it is believed, was the then prevalent epidemic-the sweating sickness. This last will shortly appear in a popular medical periodical.-ED.] Jan. 30th, 1661. Pass'd by Tyeburn. Espy'd three singular objects depending from the old gibbett-tree. They hang'd even as malefactours use, and yet (being utterly voyd of motioun) seem'd more like unto three bundells, or three men of straw. There was a very mighty crowd of 'prentices and others hootting and hallooing with horrible and diabolique yells, even as if they would have rended the welkyn asunder with their cryes. I came up (being moved with curiousness) to behold what might be the cawse of all this joy and acclamatioun, and to know what comelie pageant-spectacle was now presented unto men's eyes. When I approach'd within a visuall distance, I begann to perceive that three humane beings hang'd, (although lyfeless and all wrapp'd up in very unusuall apparell,) at which I marvell'd much. Thereafter, it came across me, that the people (having repented of returning unto their Steuart vomitt) had hang'd up Charles with his idolatrous women and (that French bitch-fox) the queen-mother, as a terrour unto all haukerers after Egyptian oniouns; whereupon I came nearer towards the spott, being minded to have a closer view of all that was there to be seen. But I was wrong, for there was a programine affix'd unto each, whereon I could read inscrybed the names of the late Mr O. Cromwel, Mr John Bradshaw, and Mr Iretown, whose miserable and festering carcasses some of the court parasytes (warring with

not perform, and seek occasion to beat them for their own sport and pastyme. All this, say I, I did abhor; but it nevertheless fell out that the urchinn Peter Vanderaa (being a most ill-conditioun'd, untoward, and unlovely child) went home to his parents skreeching alowd, and lamenting his wholesome chastysement, and thereupon, having supp'd voraciously on hogg's puddings and sowr crowt, (or some such filthy mess,) in the nyght turn'd delirious, and call'd out that I was skourging him with skorpiouns, &c., and so gave up the ghost, to the un

"Hic jacet in tumba rosa mundi, non rosa munda, Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet."

Be it spoken-from among those who hootted the lowdest, and signalysed the nselves the most by their illjudged mocking of these three miserable dead things, many I noted (and could specify) who had received vast favours from the late Mr Oliver and the two others, and not a few who importunately would have had him Emperour of the English, and adored him even as a Divus on earth. Some of the foremost, I have been given to understand, cawght feavers of the stench, of which sundry dyed; and no wonder.

Feb. 3. Thus am I become the object of all mens' scorn-my friends all having been slayn with the sword, sent into banishment, or (what, in truth, I felt more cruelly) joyn'd with God's enemyes to persecute the saynts; and those dead ones, whom I loved and lamented, (and envy'd, as being spared the wants and miserys to which we living sufferers are subject,) finding their very sepulchers no longer tenable by their bones. Waggons and caruells of halters for the saynts; promyses and pactiouns held as nought; and those who rally'd and gather'd themselves around Steuart his throne, finding that frawd and flattery were the only coyn which was like to be But there was yet a remnant of God's people which convened (even as the conys) in holes and rocks, and unto these I occasionally went, and we consoled each the other as we best might. At these assemblies there was much revelatioun of visiouns, and many oraculous prophecyings of strange things, which have not (as yet) come to pass; and I am dubious whether or no they were mear fumy, melancholique vapours, and not to be taken in any other than a typickall sense. It may be so. But they were (in truth) a great consolation to me and the others during our hour of trouble.

current.

May 14. During this periodd, (being destitute of other means,) I kept a small school in a lane near Smythfield, where I essay'd to skrape together a wretched morsell of bread, from pedagoguysing little children. But singular rumours went abroad touching me and my school, men saying that I had slayn one Peter Vanderaa, the son of an eminent hayr-merchaunt in the Minories, by cruell castigatioun with the handle of a warming-pann. This urchian (being dull of comprehending his accidence) I had, indeed, skourged somewhat, (with birchen twiggs,) but not in such wise (nor, indeed, on such a regioun of his body) as to do him any injury. I ever held in hor

being reduced unto two, one of whom (though the son of an eminent professor) never pay'd me one penny for instructioun, and the wage of the other was extinguish'd compensatione, (as schoolmen call it,) he being the nephew of the woman at whose house I lodged, to whom I ow'd much rent. So that I was shortly after induced to give up the keeping of the say'd school altogether, and to devyse various ways of mayutayning this my weary bodily tabernacle. Tractatis of sundry sorts and syzes did I write, (yea, untill mine eyes wax'd dimm, and my thumbjoynts did grievously ake,) but too little or no purpose, for no one of the booksellers would purchase my labours at any rate; so that I was within one tittle of perishing of mear want, (I would it had pleased the Lord to have had it so,) which assuredly I should have done had not a lady, my kinswoman, taken me into her house to play the pedagogue to her little children. Her husband (a papistickall knyght) was a persoun of figure about the cowrt, and ('bating his damnable heresie) was, in truth, a gentleman of liberality and honour.

While I lived with him I was (in the mayn) entreated kyndly, though sorely tormented with the heathennish worshipp, (which was overtly carry'd on in the housetwice dayly,) the noyse of the singing women, and the clang of the harping upon harps, penetrating even unto my chamber, though in a remote part of the house; to be playn, it was an attique appartment. So that, at the hours of mattins and even song, (as their abominable orgies were call'd,) I was even affected with a regular ephemeral scotomia, or obfuscatioun of mine eyesyght.

A popish priest also was there in the family as confessour and chapplain (otherwyse chamber- sathan) to the lady, one Giles Borde, (Julius Perforatus, as he would have himself called,) a Jesuit, (I veryly believe,) and given unto all manner of deceit. This wretched man (for whose blyndness I have much compassioun) impudently attempted to convert me, (as he called it,) first, by open controversy, and afterwards by insidious conversation. But (as Athanasius defeated that devill Arius) I overcame this Giles Borde at both his own weapouns. I have sett forth the particulars in one of my tractates.

I know that some of mine enemyes have stickled not to assertt that the victorie lay the other way; the unhappy creature himself also, I know, was unfortunate enough to be of the same opinioun.

August 8. I have been at the meeting, (now occasionally held at the house of a serious publicane in Shoarditch,) where I was sharply chidd, (and, indeed, somewhat bitterly revyled,) for sojourning in the house of a blaspheemer. I would fayn have say'd somewhat in reply, but the brethren refused to listen unto me, the whole assembly with one consent coughing, hemming, spitting on the floor, as also rubbing their feet whenever I begann, so that (however anxious to be heard) I could not at all

make my voyce awdible. Many other charges were lay'd at my dore. An apothecary (an old enemy of mine) taking it upon himself to say that I had butchered Peter Vandeeraa,-that I had assisted in digging up Mr Cromwell, that I poisoun'd mine uncle that his inheri tance might be mine,-that I was a Jesuitt in disguyse, and that I ought to be shamefully ejected from the congregation without any delay. This purpose would, doubtless, have been carry'd into effect, had not the meeting been suddenly dispersed by the goodman of the house putting out the lights as he rush'd in to inform us that a party of soldiers were coming (with no friendly purpose), upon which we all fledd (each as he best might) by a poster-wickett somewhat quicker than we enter'd. When I gott home, I discovered (to my great concern) that (insteadd of my beaver-hatt) I had on my head a greasy tallow-chandler's leathern capp, moreover, that some one had exchanged (in the hurry) mine excellent Geneva cloke for a butcher's apron. This cawsed much laughter among the whole household, in which I could not joyn, the more especially as my losses were never repayr'd.— Are my tryalls never to have an ending?

LINES TO

By Laurence Macdonald.

'Twas vain to think that aught like thee Could ever from my memory fade,

Last night, 'mid life's high revelry,

Thou camest again, as one long dead

Had come from heaven. And, oh! most strange,
My spirit sank from gay to sad,
And o'er me came a sudden change-
A change, as if my brain grew mad.
Then o'er me for a moment rush'd

Those buried joys thou didst impart,
And with a weight that almost crush'd
The very life-blood from my heart!
Calm and serene as cloudless sky,

There play'd no smile along thy face,
There dwelt no mirth within thine eye,
But thoughts of sadness I could trace,
And something of an inward strife

That had no business to be there,
Poisoning so young, so sweet a life,
And yet, withal, surpassing fair,
Thou stoodst in marble loveliness,
The image of young Niobe,
In beauty, mute and motionless.

Thou wert, if such a thing could be,
Enshrined within the moon's pale ray,
And veil'd as with a star's soft light,

Far, far too beautiful for day,

And almost too divine for night!

If disembodied spirits e'er

Assume a shape, nor wholly melt

Into the unsubstantial air,

'Twas such a one in which you dwelt.

And but for that thou hadst not wings,
To play around thee with their light,
And veil thy face from earthly things,

From all that hath not something bright,
I would have deem'd to thee was given
A sacred mission from on high,
To wean from hell, to woo to heaven,
Or bear the soul hence when we die.
Each gazed on each, but neither spoke,
It was enough to see, to feel,
Vain had been words, except to mock-
What burning words can ne'er reveal-
The soul unmask'd. Thus, thine was seen,
With all its clustering thoughts of light,
And mine, less bright than it had been,
Met all unveil'd thy searching sight.

You seem'd, methought, to scan it well,
And at each burning glance you took,
A shade of something o'er you fell;
It might be that you could not brook
To find thy image dwelling there,
Like chosen priestess of some shrine,
For ever pare, for ever fair,

Bright minister of things divine.
Whate'er it was, thine eye's fringe fell;
For thou hadst read enough to know
That I, alas! had loved too well,

And howsoe'er a fever'd flow Of that wild mirth might drown an hour, Within my heart, throughout my brain, Beyond the reach of leech's power, Dwelt an undying age of pain.

1831.

COUNT D'EGMONT AND MONSIEUR CHUT.

FROM THE FRENCH.

By one of the Authors of the "Odd Volume."

I HAD been about six months in the mousquetaires, (said the late Count d'Egmont, one evening at supper.) and enchanted at being freed from the restraints of school, which had annoyed me considerably, I gave myself blindly up to all the license which I saw my young comrades indulge in. One day, having dined with some of my friends, we repaired to the opera, where there was a great crowd, and it was only by dint of much jostling that we reached the centre of the pit.

Forced to stop there, I would have been as patient as my friends, but that I had the misfortune to find straight before me an old gentleman, with a wig of such outrageous amplitude as to form a kind of parapet, which bid the stage from me, and, what was still more annoying, a young dancer whom I admired exceedingly.

Having begged and entreated this gentleman to allow me a little peep-which he dryly told me was impossible I grew impatient at his sang froid, and at my position; which, to heighten my chagrin, appeared to afford much amusement to my neighbours, and especially to my young companions. I drew from my pocket a pair of scissors, with which I pruned away the overgrown branches which annoyed me. The bursts of laughter which my vengeance excited having awakened my man from his apathy, hé perceived the state to which I had reduced his wig. "My young friend,” said he, turning round, “I hope you will not leave the theatre without me." This little compliment, continued Count d'Egmont, and above all, a certain expressive glance with which it was accompanied, made me feel all the extent of my folly, and moderated, I own, not a little the pleasure I had enjoyed in committing it; however, the wine was drawn, and I felt that I must drink it.

At the conclusion of the opera, my man, turning gravely round, invited me by a sign to follow him. Crossing, not without difficulty, the court of the Palais Royal, we passed through the street of Saint Thomas da Louvre, and entered under the Arcade. Here he stopped. "You are young," said he to me, "Monsieur le Comte d'Egmont, for I have the honour of knowing you, and I owe you a lesson which, Monsieur, your late father, whom I knew still better, would probably have thanked me for giving you. When any one gives a public insult, and above all to an old officer, he must know how to fight. Let us see," continued he, drawing his sword, "how you will acquit yourself."

Equally enraged and mortified at a discourse, which seemed to me so contemptuous, I fell on him with all the impetuosity of which my age and my resentment rendered me capable. But my man was as fixed as fate; and having contented himself for some moments with insolently parrying my attacks, answered them at last with

a jerk which made my sword fly six paces off. "Take it up again, Monsieur le Comte," said he to me, with the same sang froid, "it is not like an opera dancer, but with a firm foot, like a gallant man, that one of your name ought to fight." Determined to perish rather than expose myself to new sarcasms on the part of my unaccountable antagonist, I planted myself opposite to him, and commenced a new attack with as much coolness as he defended himself. "Very well, very well, Monsieur le Comte," exclaimed, from time to time, this devil of a man; till having run me through the arm, "Well!" said he, "enough for this time." Then placing me against the wall, and telling me to wait a moment, he ran to the Palais Royal, brought a fiacre, bound up my wound with a handkerchief, told the coachman to carry us to the mousquetaires in the Street de Baune, deposited me in the hands of my Swiss, and took leave of me.

After being confined six weeks by my wound, I once more appeared abroad. About eight days after this event, entering the Café de la Régence, to look for two of my comrades, I saw my man again. He rose, approached me, put his finger on his mouth, saying, Chut, and made a sign for me to follow him.

When we arrived under the arch where our former rencontre took place-" You have amused yourself a little at my expense in relating my adventure," said he to me, "my dear count. I have too much consideration for you not to be desirous to render it still more diverting by adding a sequel to the recital. Come on."

"How shall I tell my shame, ladies and gentlemen?" continued the count. "This second lesson was pretty much the same as the first, and was followed some months after by a third. This butcher grew so formidable to me, that I never entered a public place without shuddering lest I should meet him; for I forgot to tell you, that the last lesson he gave me was on the eve of the Carnival, which he made me pass very sorrowfully in my bed.

"Judge then of my joy and thankfulness, when a garçon, from the Café de la Régence, came one morning and addressed me, Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte, but I thought I should not displease you by coming to tell you that Monsieur Chut died last night, and that my mistress hopes now to see you again at her house.""

THE DOMINIE.

By the Ettrick Shepherd.

A DOMINIE! what judge you of the term?
Is't not equivocal, with something in't
Of doubtful point? or is't a word at all?
"Tis not in Walker, nor in Dr Johnson,
And yet no term's more common. It must be
Some word of that old language spoke in Rome,
That language modell'd by cursed terminations;
The bore of youth, and pride of pedagogues,
Support of colleges and pompous drones.
A Dominie! once when I heard the term,
The title, appellation, what you will,

I saw him full before me. There he stood,
Or sat, or walk'd, or lean'd, with threatening frown,
The real epitome of domination;

The noun, the preposition, the metabasis,
Of every thing was dreaded and abhorr'd.

And then how callous his thin shrivell'd cheek,
And grey eye of intolerant tyranny!
His wig of dirty brown that scantly reach'd
Half way into his ear: all frizzled round

With fringe of thin grey hair. His coat threadbare,
Long-back'd and shapeless, and the pocket-holes
A weary width between. Yet what a shake
Of majesty was there! I see him still,

In my mind's eye, with dread and admiration!
Could man believe that I a thousand times

Have cherish'd the prospective sweet resolve
Of ample, hideous, and most dire revenge
For youthful degradation ? Was not this
A noble and illustrious resolution?
But long ere manhood had my flagrant brain
Temper'd with wisdom, I could have fallen down
At the good old man's feet, and worshipp'd him.
O when I thought of all his sufferance,
Contending with the obstinate, the stupid,
The petulant, the lazy, every one
His mortal enemy-like old Ishmael,
His hand against a whole 'obstreperous host,
And every urchin's heart and hand 'gainst him--
I marvell'd at his patience. Then I thought
Of all his virtuous precepts, of his care,
His watchful vigilance o'er rectitude
In every moral duty; then each morn
Of his orisons at the throne of mercy,
For grace and favour on each stripling's head,
And on his painful labour's blest success.

Then of his poverty, and endless task
Of duty and necessity: the sigh
And smile, oft ill-conceal'd, in haughty dread
Of aught approaching familiarity;
A face of brass, to hide a heart of love!
For when obliged to punish rigorously,
Then with majestic swagger would be turn,
That none might see him wipe the falling tear
From off the wither'd cheek. O, good old man!
Remembrance now weeps o'er thy narrow house,
And sore-neglected precepts learnt from thee.

When I compare thee with the modern prig, With well-starch'd collar, hair of formal cut, Thin listless class, and independent strut, I weep to think that the great magic fountain Of Scotland's glory and ascendency Is soil'd with lucre, mudded in the spring, And her pre-eminence for ever gone; Then I recall thy vigilance, thy toils, Thy crowded, noisy school, where every eye Burn'd with keen emulation.-Thou art gone, And our parochial honours gone with thee!

My old preceptor, if thy spirit knew How thy once wayward pupil mourns for thee, And broods upon thy memory, it might add Unto the joys which now thy grateful heart Reaps in thy Father's house-the sure reward Of sterling rectitude and moral worth, Long-suffering, patience, holiness of life, Contentment, charity, and Christian love.

REMINISCENCES OF A LOUNGER-BOOKSELLERS' SHOPS THE LATE ROBERT MILLER.

IN assuming the title of a Lounger, I understand it to denote a man who leaves home to avoid ennui, and stays abroad to escape active employment. It is not necessary that your lounger should be clearly aware of his own motives. He may be one whose busy brain is continually busied devising schemes of action. He generally is a most sagacious talker on the subject of prompt and business habits. But he is one who, from the indolence of his constitution, slips through life without doing any thingunless, indeed, dire necessity force him to bestir himself. Men of this class are to be found in every society, civilized, or uncivilized. The American Indians seem to be a race of unmixed loungers. To judge by the descriptions which travellers give of them-the fashion in which they stand gaping, stretching, and shaking themselves at the doors of their huts for an hour after they get up the dreamy moods in which they saunter, day after day, through their forests after game-they must be