Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding;
And haply from this crystal pool,

Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice-
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,

The leafy grove that covers:

And pity sanctifies the verse

That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

FROM "INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY."
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore ;-
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose,

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;-
Thou child of joy

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!

William R. Spencer.

Born 1770.
Died 1835.

THE Hon. W. R. Spencer, one of the brightest ornaments of the gay circles of the metropolis, was younger son of Lord Charles Spencer. He was author of some ballads and miscellaneous pieces, and published a translation of Bürger's "Leonora." He held the situation of Commissioner of Stamps, and died at Paris in 1835.

BETH GELERT.

THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a lustier cheer,

"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.

"O where does faithful Gêlert roam,
The flower of all his race;

So true, so brave-a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

That day Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;

And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But, when he gained his castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,

His favourite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.

Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed,
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He called his child—no voice replied--
He searched with terror wild ;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,"

The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gêlert's side.

Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear

;

His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Lewelyln's heir.

James Hogg.

Born 1770.

Died 1835.

He was born

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, the poetical name he is generally known by, was descended from a family of shepherds in Selkirkshire. in the Vale of Ettrick toward the close of 1770.

Hogg cannot be said to have had any education in his youth, as he seems only to have been half a year at school. He learned to read, however, and picked up a good deal of information in his leisure hours. At eighteen, while tending sheep, he made his first attempts in verse, and ultimately attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, whom he assisted in the collection of old ballads for the "Border Minstrelsy." In 1801, under the patronage of Sir Walter, he published a small volume of poems, and in 1807 "The Mountain Bard," both of which, besides fame, brought him some money. It was not till 1813 that he published his "Queen's Wake," the piece on which his fame as a poet rests. It met with great success, and brought him into the highest popularity. From this time until his death he continued a constant contributor to literature, and both in poetry and prose he maintained his position as an author.

Hogg was very unsuccessful in his attempts to establish himself as a farmer. Somewhat sanguine in his temperament, he engaged in speculations far beyond his means, and made disastrous failures. In his later years he was indebted to the kindness of the Duchess of Buccleuch for a home at Altrive on the Yarrow, where he died on 21st November 1835. He left a widow and five children.

BONNY KILMENY.

(From "The Queen's Wake.")

BONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hypp and the hind-berrye,
And the nut that hang frae the hazel tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;
Lang the laird of Duneira blame,

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
When the beadsman had prayed, and the dead bell rung,
Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;
When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!
"Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean;
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat ye that joup o' the lily sheen?
That bonny snood of the birk sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?"
Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her e'e,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew,
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been. . .