NORTH.

Wait, James, till " one with moderate haste might count a HUNDRED.”

What if we're a' dead?

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

The world will go on without us.

SHEPHERD.

Aye-but never sae weel again. The verra Earth will feel a dirl at her heart, and pause for a moment pensively on her ain axis.

TICKLER (sings to an accompaniment of his own composition for the Cremona.)

DEMOS.

My song is of Demos, our well-meaning friend,
Who lately was leading a peaceable life,
But now is so changed, that there's really no end
To his love of commotion, disturbance, and strife:
He's got such strange fancies and whims in his head,
And shews them so strangely wherever he goes,
That I fear he requires to be physic'd and bled,
For the more he is humour'd, the wilder he

Thus abroad, he again has insanely begun

grows.

The career that once led him to sorrow and shame:

And madly exulting in what he has done,

He thinks his own echo the trumpet of Fame:

He blusters, and bullies, and brags of it so,

Yet mimics so strangely the land of the free,
That you'd almost suppose he intended to shew
How truly absurd even Freedom can be!

There in heavy Holland, where a sceptre of lead,
By nature should hold its Baotian reign,
He vows he must have the French bayonet instead,
Just to keep his own pond'rous posteriors in pain!
He sets fire to his house-he abandons his trade-
He perplexes his person with warlike array,
And fearlessly tells us he is not afraid,

And will never submit to legitimate sway!

Then at home he despises the old-fashion'd air
Of the vessel that's weather'd so many a storm,
And tells all the crew that they now must prepare
For a work of destruction, which he calls Reform:
And much do I fear that the crew must submit,

And yield to a blast that so fiercely prevails,
For the Devil himself at the helm seems to sit,
While Beelzebub's busy in filling the sails!

Oh, Demos! thy madness is madness indeed,
As all will admit, in that ill-omen'd hour,

When, from Princes, from Priests, and from Principles freed,
You become the first victim of this your own power!

For, trust me, my friend, you have merely to taste

The sweets of your own Il-legitimate sway,

To mourn o'er the path that can ne'er be retraced,

And curse the false friends that have led you astray!

SHEPHERD.

Soun' doctrine weel sung. Mr North, when ma lug's in for music, I aye like to hear't flowin', if no in a continuous strain, yet just, as a body micht say, wi' nae langer interruption than ane micht toddle owre a bit green

knowe, and come down on anither murmur in the hollow, as sweet and clear as that he has left!

NORTH.

After such an image, James, how can I refuse?

Here's your herp, sir.

SHEPHERD.

(NORTH receives from the hand of the SHEPHERD perhaps the finesttoned Welsh harp in the world-the gift of Owen Evans of Pen

manmawr.

NORTH.

The air, you know, is my own, James. I shall sing it to-night to some beautiful words by my friend Robert Folkestone Williams-written, he tells me, expressly for the Noctes.

On! fill the wine-cup high,

The sparkling liquor pour;
For we will care and grief defy,
They ne'er shall plague us more.

And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a home,
A dwelling in our hearts.

Though bright may be the beams
That woman's eyes display;
They are not like the ruby gleams
That in our goblets play.

For though surpassing bright
Their brilliancy may be,

Age dims the lustre of their light,
But adds more worth to thee.

Give me another draught,

The sparkling, and the strong;
He who would learn the poet craft-
He who would shine in song-
Should pledge the flowing bowl

With warm and generous wine;

'Twas wine that warm'd Anacreon's soul,

And made his songs divine.

And e'en in tragedy,

Who lives that never knew

The honey of the Attic Bee

Was gather'd from thy dew?

He of the tragic muse,

Whose praises bards rehearse;

What power but thine could e'er diffuse

Such sweetness o'er his verse?

Oh! would that I could raise

The magic of that tongue;

The spirit of those deathless lays,

The Swan of Teios sung!

Each song the bard has given,

Its beauty and its worth,

Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven

Was echoed upon earth.

How mighty-how divine,
Thy spirit seemeth when

The rich draught of the purple vine
Dwelt in these godlike men.
It made each glowing page,
Its eloquence, and truth,
In the glory of their golden age,
Outshine the fire of youth.

Joy to the lone heart-joy
To the desolate-oppress'd
For wine can every grief destroy
That gathers in the breast.
The sorrows, and the care,
That in our hearts abide,

"Twill chase them from their dwellings there,

To drown them in its tide.

And now the heart grows warm,
With feelings undefined,

Throwing their deep diffusive charm
O'er all the realms of mind.
The loveliness of truth

Flings out its brightest rays,
Clothed in the songs of early youth,
Or joys of other days.

We think of her, the young,
The beautiful, the bright;

We hear the music of her tongue,
Breathing its deep delight.

We see again each glance,

Each bright and dazzling beam,
We feel our throbbing hearts still dance,
We live but in a dream.

From darkness, and from woe,
A power like lightning darts;
A glory cometh down to throw
Its shadow o'er our hearts.
And dimm'd by falling tears,
A spirit seems to rise,

That shews the friend of other years

Is mirror'd in our eyes.

But sorrow, grief, and care,

Had dimm'd his setting star;

And we think with tears of those that were,

To smile on those that are.

Yet though the grassy mound

Sits lightly on his head,

We'll pledge, in solemn silence round,

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD!

The sparkling juice now pour,

With fond and liberal hand;

Oh! raise the laughing rim once more,
Here's to our FATHER LAND!

Up, every soul that hears,

Hurrah! with three times three;

And shout aloud, with deafening cheers,
The "ISLAND OF THE FREE."

VOL. XXIX. NO, CLXXVĮ.

Then fill the wine-cup high,

The sparkling liquor pour;
For we will care and grief defy,
They ne'er shall plague us more.
And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a home-
A dwelling in our hearts.

SHEPHERD.

Very gude-excellent-beautifu'! I thocht at ae time it was gaun to be owre lang-and aiblins it micht be sae-at least for a sang-unner ither circumstances-but here-noo-wi' your vice an' herp, it was owre sune owre-and here's to the health o' your freen, Robert Folkstone Williamsand may he be here to sing't himsell some nicht. Ken ye ony thing about American Poetry, Mr North?

NORTH.

Not so much as I could wish. Would all the living best American bards send me over copies of their works, I should do them justice. I respectnay I admire that people, James; though perhaps they don't know it. Yet I know less of their Poetry than their Politics, and of them not much—

TICKLER.

How Jonathan Jeremy-Diddlers our Ministries! "Have you got such a thing as a half-crown about you?" And B flat, obedient to A sharp, shells out the ready rhino from his own impoverished exchequer into that of his "Transatlantic brother," overflowing with dollars.

SHEPHERD.

But the little you do ken o' their poetry, let's hear't.

NORTH.

I have lately looked over-in three volumes-Specimens of American Poetry, with Critical and Biographical Notices, and have met with many most interesting little poems, and passages of poems. The editor has been desirous of shewing what had been achieved under the inspiration of the American Muses before the days of Irving and Cooper, Pierpont and Percival, and thinks, rightly, that the lays of the Pilgrim Fathers of New England, the poets of the Western world, are as likely to bear some characteristic traits of national or individual character, as those of the Minnesingers and Trouveurs—or the "Gongorism of the Castilian rhymesters of old."

Gongorism! What's that?

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Accordingly, he goes as far back as 1612, and gives us a pretty long poem, called "Contemplations," by Anne Bradstreet, daughter of one Governor of Massachusetts Colony, and wife of another, who seems to have been a fine spirit.

Was she, sir?

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

She is said to have been " a woman honoured and esteemed, where she lived, for her gracious demeanour, her eminent parts, her pious conversation, her virtuous disposition, her exact diligence in her place, and discreet managing of her family occasions; and more so, these poems are the fruits but of some few hours curtailed from her sleep, and other refresh

ments."

SHEPHERD.

Then Anne Bradstreet, sir, was a fine spirit! Just like a' our ain poetesses-in England and Scotland-married or no married yet-and och! och! och! hoo unlike to her and them the literary limmers o' France, rougin' and leerin' on their spinnle-shanked lovers, that maun hae loathed the sicht and the smell o' them, starin' and stinkin' their way to the grave!

TICKLER.

nes!

NORTH.

The celebrated Cotton Mather

SHEPHERD.

Aye, I ken about him-born about fifety years after that date-the great mover in the mysterious matter o' the Salem witchcraft.

NORTH.

He says that "her poems, eleven times printed, have afforded a plentiful entertainment unto the ingenious, and a monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marbles." And the learned and excellent Norton of Ipswich

I kenna him

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

calls her "The mirror of her age, and glory of her sex."

SHEPHERD.

Recolleck ye ony verses o' her contemplations?

NORTH.

Anne is walking in her contemplations through a wood-and she saith,

While musing thus, with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain,
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,
I judged my hearing better than my sight,

And wish'd me wings with her a while to take my flight.

"O Merry Bird !" said I," that fears no snares,
That neither toils, nor hoards up in thy barns,
Feels no sad thought, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm;
Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear,

Remind'st not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Set'st hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,

So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

And warbling out the old, begins anew;

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

Then follow thee into a better region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion!"

SHEPHERD.

Oh! man, but they're bonny, incorrect, sweet, simple lines thae-and after sic a life as Anne Bradstreet led, can there be ony doubt that she is in heaven?

NORTH.

In my mind none. Nearly a hundred years after the birth-and nearly forty after the death of Anne Bradstreet-was born in Boston, Jane Colman, daughter of a clergyman, who was a school companion of Cotton Mather. At eleven, she used to correspond with her worthy father in verseon entering her nineteenth year, she married a Mr Turel of Medford

SHEPHERD.

Hoo can ye remember names in that wonnerfu' way, sir? And yet you say ye hae nae memory? You forget naething.

NORTH.

and died, James, in 1735, at the age of twenty-seven, "having faithfully fulfilled those duties which shed the brightest lustre on woman's name -the duties of the friend, the daughter, the mother, and the wife."

SHEPHERD.

Hae ye ony o' her verses by heart, sir?