An INDIAN STORM.

[By H. M. Parker, Author of the Draught of Immortality.]

Evening.

Throned amidst thunder-clouds, the dark toofaun
Frowns grimly down upon the sinking sun,
With all his banners purple, black, and dun,
Unfurled for war. The tribes of air have gone
Wheeling and screaming-flying from the gale,
Like ocean-mists;-a solitary sail

Shines thro' the gloom, and o'er the murky river,
Like hope's last ray to hearts it leaves for ever.
Now bursts the storm in one terrific howl,
Wild as the din of hell. The lightnings pale
Glitter through rattling cataracts of hail.

The clouds rush down in floods, the heavens scowl,
Earth shakes, and all its groaning forests nod:
Kneel, man! and deprecate the wrath of GOD.
Light.

The storm has past, and dewy silence reigns
Upon the broad, blue river, and the earth;
The perfumed air is cool, as though its birth
Had been 'midst Himalayah's frozen crests.
How calm, how silent-save where the plashing oar
Dips faint and far, rippling the lamp's pale beam
That shoots from mosque or temple on thhore,
Athwart the eddying Gunga's holy stream.
And see! the rising moon ;-around her gleam
The stars, bright satraps of her silver throne,
Lighting the hour, when, sadly and alone,
The exile muses.-What to him are these,
The East's resplendent skies and fragrant trees,
This clime of flowers and stars?-Alas! 'tis not his own.

The Pampas of South America.

Captain Head, in his Travels recently published, gives a very interesting account of these singular plains; and as we have already described some of the appearances of Nature in foreign countries, this narrative will form an agreeable supplement. The Pampas stretch 900 miles, to the foot of the Andes. These 900 miles, in the part which he visited, though under the same latitude, are divided into three regions, of different climate and produce. On leaving Buenos

Ayres, the first of these regions is covered for 180 miles with clover and thistles; the second, of 450 miles, with long grass; and the third, extending to the Cordillera, with low trees and shrubs. The second and third of these regions, says Captain Head, have nearly the same appearance throughout the year, for the trees and shrubs are ever green, and the immense plain of grass only changes its colour from green to brown; but the first region varies with the four seasons of the year in a most extraordinary manner. In winter, the leaves of the thistles are large and luxuriant, and the whole surface of the country has the rough appearance of a turnip-field. The clover, in this season, is extremely rich and strong; and the sight of the wild cattle grazing in full liberty in such pasture is very beautiful. In spring, the clover has vanished, the leaves of the thistles have extended along the ground, and the country still looks like a rough crop of turnips. In less than a month, the change is most extraordinary; the whole region becomes a luxuriant word of enormous thistles, which have suddenly shot up to u' height of ten er eleven feet, and are all in full bloom. The road or path is hemmed in on both sides · view is completely obstructed; not an animal be seen, and the stems of the thistles are so close to each other, and so strong, that, independent of the prickles with which they are armed, they form an impenetrable barrier. The sudden growth of these plants is quite astonishing; and though it would be an unusual misfortune in military history, yet it is really possible that an invading army, unacquainted with this country, might be imprisoned by these thistles, before they had time to escape from them. The summer is not over before the scene undergoes another rapid change: the thistles suddenly lose their sap and verdure, their heads droop, the leaves shrink and fade, the stems become black and dead, and they remain rattling with the breeze one against another, until the violence of the pampero or hurricane levels them with the ground, when they ra

4

pidly decompose and disappear-the clover rushes up, and the scene is verdant again.

The vast region of grass in the Pampas for 450 miles, is without a weed, and the region of wood is equally extraordinary. The trees are not crowded, but in their growth such beautiful order is observed, that one can gallop between them in every direction. The young trees are rising up, others are flourishing in full vigour; and, it is for some time, that one looks in vain for those which, in the great system of succession, must necessarily somewhere or other be sinking towards decay. They are at last discovered, but their fate is not allowed to disfigure the general cheerfulness of the scene; and they are seen enjoying what may literally be termed a green old age. The extremities of their branches break off as they die; and when nothing is left but the hollow trunk, it is still covered with twigs and leaves, and at last is gradually concealed from view by the young shoot, which, born under the shelter of its branches, now rises rapidly above it, and conceals its decay. A few places are met with which have been burnt by accident, and the black desolate spot, covered with the charred trunks of trees, resembles a scene in the human world of pestilence or war. But the fire is scarcely extinct, when the surrounding trees all seem to spread their branches towards each other; and young shrubs are seen rising out of the ground, while the sapless trunks are evidently mouldering into dust.

This whole space is thinly populated with Indians, all equestrians as soon as they can crawl-who live on the herds that low along the plains in countless multitudes, and now and then on a little horseflesh, and eke out the luxuries of life by plundering a traveller, when they can find one. Some are employed by the government of Buenos Ayres to supply the posts with horses (and in this they have no difficulty), or in feeding or stabling them. All run wild, and are caught as they are wanted. The dex

T

terity of these Indians in catching them is admirable; urchins of seven or eight years old manage the matter with ease, and take charge of them from post to post.

As the month of August may find some of our readers at the unfashionable, but very agreeable place 'ycleped Margate, we will treat them with some stanzas from a highly humorous poem by MR. THOMAS HOOD, author of Odes to Great People,'' Whims and Oddities,' &c. &c.

The MERMAID of MARGATE.

On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads;

Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes,
Like the ocean, to cast her weeds;-

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,

As lovely and fair as Sin!

But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea wares,
And her locks are golden and loose;
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes,

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be,
Hath planted his seat by her side;—
'Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea,
To make thee so watch the tide?'

She turned about with her pearly brows,

And clasped him by the hand :

Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house

On the golden Goodwin Sand.'

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt,

Not walking, as damsels do,

With toe and heel, as she ought to have stepped,-
But she hopt like a kangaroo.

One plunge, and then the victim was blind,
Whilst they galloped across the tide:
At last, on the bank, he waked in his mind,
And the beauty was by his side,-

One half in the sand, and half in the sea;
But his hair all began to stiffen-

For, when he looked where her feet should be,
She had no more feet than Miss Biffin!

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth,
In the dabbling brine did soak:
At last she opened her pearly mouth
Like an oyster, and thus she spoke :-
'You crimpt my father, who was a skate;
And my sister you sold-a maid:
So here remain for a fishery fate,

For lost you are, and betrayed.'

And away she went, with a sea-gull's stream,
And a splash of her saucy tail:

In a moment he lost the silvery gleam
That shone on her splendid mail.

The sun went down with a blood-red flame,
And the sky grew cloudy and black;

And the tumbling billows, like leap-frog, came
Each over the other's back.

And still the waters foamed in, like ale,

In front, and on either flank;

He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail

There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more,

The surges came tumbling in ;—

He sang the Ev'ning Hymn twice o'er,
And thought of ev'ry sin.

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart,

As cold as his marble slab;

And he thought he felt, in every part,

The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled,
And the little potted shrimps,

All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled,
Gnawed into his soul, like imps.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,
He saw a sail and mast,

And called ahoy!'-but it was not a hoy,
And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing, that flapped in his face,
The wild bird about him flew,

With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case"Why, thou art a sea-gull, too!'

But just as his body was all afloat,

And the surges above him broke,

He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat, Of Deal (but builded of oak).