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so bewitching? It oppresses our soul with too full a ing, the sonorous tones of our voice may have been heard sense of the loveliness of external nature, and our mad- by the perambulator on the beach at Portobello, mingling ness is full of melancholy. We throw ourselves down with the dredging-song of the fishermen. The pandores upon the breezy height that commands the castle and the know the music, and willingly allow themselves to be wooded dell, and, gazing upwards on the summer sky, we caught by the Editor, on whom, in mute love, they turn catch the murmuring of the stream and hear the rustling their “ gentle dumb expression,” as we gulp them alire. of the leaves, until the sounds and the sunshine become a We have been mad at Craigmillar Castle, that ancient part of ourselves, and the fret, and languor, and feverish seat of Scottish royalty, the favourite residence of Mary anxieties of ordinary existence sink into oblivion. The the beautiful, the high-minded, and the deeply-injured. trees that hang upon the side of Hawthornden, how are No wonder that she loved it, for it commands the noblest they interfused with the golden sunlight ! how are they, view in all the land,--the fertile plains of East Lothian, in beautiful variety, either massed up into magnificent the magnificent basin of the Forth, the undulating Pentgroups waving over the toppling cliffs, or opening into lands, the lion hill of King Arthur, the placid lake which glades and fairy knolls, into which there comes down sleeps at its foot, and the palaces and towers of Dunedin. from the sky a golden shower of beams like Jove into the We have visited Craigmillar only twice in our life, and lap of Danäe! Then the stream ! that “pure and blessed on both occasions we had good reason to be mad-a slow thing !” for ever prattling on with its many tones ! how consuming madness, which broke not out at the time, but deep the enchantment which it lends to that glorious which struck into our constitution, and will be difficult to ramble between Lasswade and Roslin ! Call it not “classic eradicate. Hawthornden;" it has higher attributes ; it is a spot of We have been mad on the Corstorphin hills-mad at earth hallowed not by man, but by God.

Cramond Brig,—mad at Habbie's Howe,-mad at the We have been mad at Musselburgh. The enormous Compensation Pond,-mad at Pennycuick-mad—0! sums which we have staked on horse-flesh, in the race very mad at Curry, and in a state of total distraction course there, exceed all computation ; yet, by a sort of at Haddington. But why confine ourselves to the immiracle, we have never been more than a few pounds mediate vicinity of Edinburgh? Where have we not been either in or out of pocket any one season. It is well that mad? Have we not been deeply and gloomily mad in is so, for we have more than once felt the spirit of a that bleak and wild valley, through which the Line winds black-leg creeping upon us, and we have longed to hedge to the Tweed, where rises the black castle of Drochil, our bets, and even to physic the horses against which we that gaunt and spectral-looking mansion, commenced, but gave the long odds. But few minds can help being thrown never finished, by the bloody Earl of Morton ? Hare we off their equilibrium, by the ecstasy of seeing the horse not been cheerfully and enthusiastically mad beside the you have backed come in by balf a neck. Tbere is first bonny linn and woods of Cora, into whose white waters the perfect hush of the multitude, when, as Campbell says, we fell but to rise out of them again with renewed vi.

the boldest holds his breath for a time," as they pass gour, the baptized child of Scotland and her thousand ri. the distance, and near the winning, post; then there are vers ? Have we not been purely, truly, and tenderly mad the slight alterations in the places of the leading horses, upon thy broad surface, glorious Lochlomond ! where we alterations, however, which change the destination of saited with Thee, and loved thee all the while too well to hundreds of pounds, and the sight of which so agitates love great nature so much as we have done of yore ? Dost the spectators, that to relieve their throbbing and oppressed thou remember that we landed on that fairy island, and hearts, they burst out of silence into tumultuous shouts of gazed together from the top ? When shall we gaze again encouragement, and exclamations of sudden joy or fear; together upon a sight so fair? We must not ponder too long then there is the final and momentary struggle—the upon the answer to that question. An Editor in love is whipping and sparring of the riders—the waving of hats, an anomaly in nature. It matters not ; we have made and clapping of hands, and the inimitable tact with which good our position. In the words of the old song, we may some experienced old jockey lifts his horse, at the very safely say, winning-post, a full head before all the others. Human

“ Mad, mad, and merry were we, nature could stand no more ; were the race continued

Mad were we up and down, twenty yards farther, we and a dozen other sporting cha

Mad among the streams and hills, racters would drop down dead on the spot from sheer over

And madder in the roaring town." excitement. But the collecting of one's winnings! The calm smile of conscious superiority with which you poc But for Heaven's sake, let us now get back to our ket a bunch of notes ! or the rich expression of ill-con- study as fast as possible, else our Pegasus will run off cealed triumph with which you exact the payment of five with us altogether, and, like a second John Gilpin, we shillings from some old miser, who ventured to bet to that shall be seen careering along every highroad in the extent, upon what he considered a certainty! No wonder kingdom. Our SLIPPERS will operate like a cooling we have been mad at Musselburgh.

draught, and we shall become once more sedate, compoWe have been mad on the Frith of Forth, between sed, and dignified ;Newbaven and berdour; mad, not as the trustees of

“ Here awa, there awa, wandering Editor, the Fife Ferries are mad, but as he is who rejoices in the

Here awa, there awa, write sober prose; dancing up and down of a trim-built wherry. Away

With all the blockheads now keep up your credit, or have we scudded up almost to Grangemouth, or down to the Isle of May and the hoary Bass ; now whizzing be

Bigwigs and boobies will turn up their nose." fore the breeze like the Flying Dutchman, and now steer Well, they may just do so if they please, for even here, in ing within one point of the wind, as vessel was never our study, we hold to-day a jubilee, and we shall give free steered before. We have fished all night off the north scope to whatsoever mood of mind may present itself. east point of Inchkeith, and found our boat in the morn And why should we not? Is not this a day of rejoicing ing filled with the most unimaginable creatures, concern to all Scotland, seeing that to-day, in greater power and ing the natural history of which not Dr Greville him- with more resources than ever, we commence the Fourth self could give us any information. We have explored Volume of the Literary Journal. Why should we not several uninhabited islands, which lie nearly in the same take our pleasure in our own SLIPPERS, seeing that, when latitude as the village of Cramond ; and on the shores of in our boots, we can do business in a style that laughs to one of them, we once saw the print of a man's foot, but scorn all other Editors ? Look to our reviews in this very we were never able to discover the horde of barbarians to Number. The leading review alone would make the for. which he must have belonged. We have dragged for tune of any new periodical. Nor is that on the Encyoysters off Prestonpans, and in the calm symmer moro- | clopædia Britannica, or that on Douglas of Cayers, or

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TO THB EDITOR.

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that on Valpy's Greek Exercises, less excellent. Then hiding their diminished heads, far away and for ever! look to our Original Poetry,—the Ettrick Shepherd and Amen! the author of " Anster Fair" side by side, * two of the strongest pillars of our national school; and Gertrude, our

In like manner, we find our own value properly set own Gertrudewhom we back at this moment against forth in an agreeable poetical letter from Dumfries. We both L. E. L. and Mrs Norton-gracefully standing cannot insert the whole of it; but being not quite so moapart by herself " in maiden meditation fancy free." dest now as we once were, we willingly give a place Then look to our“ Varieties," and our “ Chit Chat,"-SO

to the lines which follow, recommending them to the semuch information crammed into so small a space, and all rious attention of all those who hate us with a perfect so pleasant to read, and so profitable to hear! And wait hate, and who sneer at us with witty sneers : a little, for we have not done yet; look also to the group of contributors, from all parts of the country, which we are about to summon with one wave of our magic.wand, As skilful nurses wisely show and who will start up like Rhoderick Dhu's band, each

The way how children ought to go, E ready armed with song and sonnet. Verily, it is but lit

And train them on a piece of cloth tle marvel that we are jocund in our Editorship, for

By precept and example both ; greatly are we respected, and much are we beloved, and

So you, our patron, guide, and stay, bighly are we popular, whilst we see others labouring Have led us in Fame's letter'd way. around us with little profit and with small thanks, puff

If, from plain prose, we witless stray'd, ing and blowing, and making a terrible splashing in the

Or blunder'd in the Muse's trade, muddy waters around them, but sinking every day deep If dulness we mistook for fire, er and deeper, till at length nothing but a little bit of their bald heads is seen above the slime and mire of the

You, like smooth candour touch'd with ire, receding tide. . No marvel that respectable poets up and

Applied with skill the critic's lash,

And whipt away the brainless trash; down the land feel themselves raised to the third heavens

If taste and judgment seem'd to shine 1 when any of their lucubrations find a place in our pages, and in the exuberant delight of their hearts, write to us

In prospect o'er the future line,

You ne'er were niggard of applause, in such terms as the following, which is but an extract E from one of the many pleasing letters in praise of our

But spoke out in young merit's cause.

Much reason have we to conclude selves we receive weekly :

Your labours always tend to good ; TO THE ÉDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.

You turn our follies to a glass, ke

To show us wisdom as we pass;
Forfar, May, 1830.

The present thus rebukes the past,
Now am I immortalized! Will not the Edinburgh And even fools get wise at last.
Literary Journal glide down the silver stream of time,
with all ber pennons flying,—beautiful, bright, and glo-

Having indulged thus far in egotism, we shall now de. rious? and will not the names of your correspondents part out of ourselves, and summon into the presence of 3 be written in letters of gold round the immortal SLIPPERS,

our readers a poet whom we have long loved, but who, emblazoned on the silken ensign, rustling to the gentle devoted to higher duties, will probably never seek to gain breeze of heaven ? and will not futurity, with the most that fame he might so easily acquire. We regret that enthusiastic gratulations, hail the magnificent bark, as,

we cannot disclose the name of the author of these fine. on her voyage of immortality, she sails along with many a happy shade of poet and poetess on board ? Methinks I see the splendid and sublime phenomenon newly launched, and still hovering over the Calton-hill, while all the scene

Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, below is peopled with the beauty and chivalry of Scotland, gazing in breathless but pleasurable astonishment on the Again, then, on thy bank, exulting river ! ethereal wonder! And who are these coming down through Again we've met; and still towards the main the far sky, on their glittering pinions, with music and Thy billows roll unchanged, as if for ever, with song? It is the glorious Nine themselves ! Lo! they Despite of time, their course they could retain., salute the noble captain—the editor of editors, and gracefully take their stations on the quarter-deck, redolent of Nor time nor change hath dimm'd thy shining water, balm and of myrtle, and of every sweet bloom! Hark! The rocks that girt thee still their garlands wear,

the harmony of the spheres, and the echoing harps of the The clouds look down upon their mountain daughter, * sacred sisters, as the hallowed vehicle, mounting, floats Lovely as when at first she sprang to air.

slowly away! By ten thousand fair hands are waved ten
thousand adieus and blessings, whilst tongues innumerable | The scenes of early life are round me shining
cheer the departing pageant.

All the bells of fair Dun Beneath a bright and well-remember'd sky; edin chime jabilant, and all the mountains of Albyn's city Unchanged-save into bloom more undecliningreverberate the symphonious applause! Lo! a beautiful Yet all around me tells how changed am I ! iris is thrown across the sky-a shower of nectar falls the spirit-ship of poetic fame is baptized! Read, thou de- From hope, which arc'd all tempests, to repininglighted world, the everlasting name

From creeds wbich open'd heaven to childhood's view, “ The Edinburgh Literary Journal.”

To doubts, like serpents round my heartstrings twining-,

From all I could not dread, to all I do! By the romantic minstrels of the rocky Caledon-by the poets and sweet poetesses of fair England and by Thy renovated youth-its luxury glowing bim, the chivalrous knight of the flaming lyre, the EDITOR On the rapt sense—haloes thee, glorious stream ! HIMSELF, are sung the praises of the spirit-ship; and as it Alas! while I behold thee brightly flowing, sails on, the breezes ripple into sunlight around its sides. My mem'ry's wave through deserts pours its gleam. Then fly the vulgar and the renegade crew, taking but one brief glance of the full-rigged glory, and instantly Yet there's a beauty comes not by the eye,

And there's a music wooes not by the ear,

There is a life which breathes but in a sigh,— • Since writing the above, we find ourselves obliged to post pone a powerful ballad by the Shepherd till our next.

And these, and more than these, are with me here.

stanzas :

STANZAS TO THE RIVER D

Labuntur anni!

HOR.

I gaze upon thy glory, as if Heaven

Had made me once again what I am not ; Since last I saw thee, I have mourn'd, watchd, striven,

Loath'd life itself, and now 'tis all forgot !

Ay, all forgot !—the dead are standing round me,

The false, in their first loveliness, are near,— The dreams which cheer'd, and lofty hopes which bound

me,
Like a soft sunrise, dawn upon me here.
I gaze o'er troubled days and wasted hours,

Like a spent meteor o'er its fiery track ;
And, through them all, like Eve to Eden's bowers,

To early love my pausing heart looks back.
As oft, in icicles, a flower remaineth

Unwither'd, until spring its buds unchain;
This bosom, through all change, that love retaineth,

And now exhumes its summer leaves again.

Those branches whose leaves are so pallid and few?
Fill the bowl! fill it high! 'twill their verdure renew!
When manhood declines, and the grey hairs of age
Come to tell that we tread on life's last leaden stage ;
When the lights of the heart all in darkness subside,
And the slow hours like reptiles through charnel vaults

glide ; When death's shadow rests on the spiritless frame, Fill the bowl ! fill it bigh !-'twill rekindle the flame!

In a different style, and from a different part of the country, namely, from the good town of Arbroath, comes the following effusion. It is a simple and pretty ballad :

THE PRIDE O' THE GLEN,
Frae fa' o' the lav'rock at gloamin' yestreen,
In glen o' the birk, an' the bracken sae green,
I wander'd till day was abroad on the plain,
Wi' bonnie young Mary, the pride o' the glen.
Young Mary is pure as the dew on the bud,
And gracefu' and fair as the bow in the clud;
And sportive and guileless as lamb on the lea—
And dear as my life is the lassie to me!

Her cheek's like the early sky, rosie and cool ; Her neck is the neck o' the swan in the pool ; Her breast is the breast o' the snowie white dove, Aye heavin' wi' feeling, and lowin' wi' love!

The noise of life can ne'er so dull our ear,

Nor passion's waves, though in their wildest mood, That oft, above their surge, we should not hear

The solemn yoices of the great and good. They, station'd on the mountains, whence comes wan

d'ring, Like sounds of heavenly birth, their holy strain; While the still'd soul, its wasted seasons pond'ring,

Is wooed to all its loftier hopes again.

It is a saying among farmers in the earlier part of the year, that " as the day lengthens, the cold strengthens." So it is with poets: the more the list increases, the greater the number of candidates that present themselves. There came to us, not many weeks ago, a simple son of song, John Wright by name, who had travelled all the way from Galston to Edinburgh, with little else but a manuscript poem in his pocket. His great ambition was to see the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine and the Editor of the Literary Journal ; and he saw us both. He published a prospectus of his poem, which he is to bring out by subscription, and which he is to call “ The Retrospect; or, Youthful Scenes.” Most of his manuscripts passed through our hands, and we have pleasure in subjoining, as a favourable specimen of his abilities, the following

You'd dree a' the sorrows o' care and o' pain,
Ae tear o' her melting affection to gain ;
There's naething on earth but you gladly wad gie
For ae thrill in the glint o' her love-lighted ee.

Of a' in this bosom that melts and that glows,
The kindest and purest to Mary aye flows,
As streams to their hame in the far ocean run,
As flow'rets aye hang on the lips o' the sun.
Though I'm luckless and poor, as the cauldrife may say,
They dreamna that I in my keepin' still hae
A treasure, whase value they dinna weel ken-
The heart o' young Mary, the pride o' the glen !
Arbroath.

M. Taking a leap from the north to the south of Edinburgh, a poet greets us there, starting up like a pleasant thought, as Wordsworth says of daisies, “ when such is wanted :”

ANACREONTIC SONG.

By John Wright. Kiss the goblet and live! it is sweeter to sip, And richer than beauty's ambrosial lip; And fairer than Fairyland poets have sung, And truer than flattery's mellifluous tongue ; When clouds o'er the bright sky of young hope are drivenFill the bowl! fill it high !--it will waft you to heaven!

TO A BRANCH OF ROSES BLOOMING IN A FLOWER-POT.

By the Rev. James Proudfoot of Culter.
Branch of Roses, bending low,

O'er the page before me lying ;
Where got thou that crimson glow,

With the hues of heaven vying?
Where got thou that lovely bloom ?
And where that delicate perfume ?
For thou never wast bathed in the summer shower,
And the gaudy insect ne'er courted thy flower.

When penury shoots his sharp frosts through the blood,
When passion would weave us too early a shroud,-
When conscience starts up like a sibilant snake,
And the glory sets darkly that shone to awake
A fire and a feeling which held us in thrall-
Fill the bowl ! fill it high !—'tis the Lethe of all !

When obloquy pours forth her poisonous breath,
And saddens our sky with the paleness of death;
When friendship's sweet smile is converted for aye,
To the frown of contempt and the glance of dismay;
Though these evils above us like thunder-clouds hang-
Fill the bowl! fill it high!--it will soften the pang !

Branch of Roses, bending low,

Thou wast nursed 'mid sickly vapour,
Even in tender embryo,

By the wasting midnight taper.
Yet thy flower is red, and thy leaves are green,
As of the garden thou hadst been,
Though thou never wast wet with the dew of even,
And thou never wast fann'd by the breeze of heaven,

What is life, but the sound of a wearisome chime?
What is love, but a tree in the desert of time,
Whose blossoms look pale in the watery glow
That flickering gleams on its branches of woe,

Branch of Roses, bending low,

Near a head with sorrow aching; Cease thy useless sweets to throw

Around a heart with anguish breaking :

ed.

I STOLE A DREAM.

Thy beauty is lost, and thy fragrance vain,

will be roasted directly, and eaten to supper instead of To a heart of woe and head of pain ;

dinner. Oh! what a predicament for any human being For thy leaves shall fall, and thy flowers be faded, to be in !” I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, and a shrill And this heart to its woe shall still be wedded. voice bawled into my ear, “ Stand oot o' the cart track,

young man, gin ye dinna want to be ridden ower. Auld Branch of Roses, bending low

Luckie Aitchison harms naebody, for a' their clavers; O'er the hand that now is writing;

but gin ye're flee'd, ye can wait till I pit in her coals, and Still may be, ere thy buds shall blow,

I'll gi'e ye a cast up the gait.” This homely address disThe heaving heart these lines inditing.

pelled the fearful delusion, and every thing was explainOh! could man this being loose,

The honest old woman was highly tickled with the Soft as the falling leaf of the rose !

account which I gave of the strange fancies which had But firm is the band of life's mystic tying,

occupied me as she had also been with my appearance, And there's many a pang in the work of dying ! during my half-hour's stance the cause of which she

had, indeed, partly conjectured. She now really comBranch of Roses, bending low

passionated my condition, for I was still pale and ghastly; O'er the hand thy stem that planted ;

and having invited me into her house, persuaded me to Where the grave-flowers rankly grow,

taste a cordial, which, wherever brewed, or of whatever Thy soft bloom shall not be wanted ;

compounded, produced entire restoration. Luckie AitYet some loved friend will kindly take

chison bas since left this sublunary scene, and it has often An interest in thee, for my sake,

occurred to me that I could not do better than bring beAnd save thy buds from blight and blasting,

fore the public the foregoing narration, because of its When this woe-worn frame in earth is wasting ! great importance in clearing away the mists of error From another corner of the island comes an amusing which are too apt to obfuscate the human mind. story in prose :

The author of a wild and original poem of some length,

not yet published, bearing the equally wild and original A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT.

title of “ The Lunacy, or Death-watch ; a Necromaunt, By Thomas Brydson.

in Four Chimæras," has sent us the following little poem, In the green valley of a certain mountain range, stands, which, we think, possesses singular power and merit: or stood, the cottage of that most formidable of all characters, a reputed witch. Never shall I forget the occa

By Thomas Todd Stoddart. sion which brought me into actual contact with this singular personage. I was returning late one evening

I stole a dream, that, like the stir i from a fishing excursion,—my thoughts so much en

Of moonlight on the sea, grossed with my recent sport, that I unconsciously took Over the virgin brow of her the road leading past the place of all others I least wished

I loved, lay silently ! to encounter, either by day or by night. Some unwonted

I saw another,—and he wore object suddenly crossing the horizon of my reverie, I

A statelier step than mine, looked up, and beheld, a few paces before me, the dreaded

And threw a nobler shadow o'er inmate of the cottage herself, seated upon a stone by the

My sleeping Eveline ! hedge side, and twirling a piece of grass between her fingers. On her head she had one of those conical-shaped

And there was love, like mystery, flannel cowls which old peasant women not unfrequently

Lay burning in the glance wear-but hers was of more than ordinary capacity, and Of her dark eyes, that gave reply its bend forward was most exactly copied by the nose

To his fair countenance. protruding beneath its shadow, and almost touching a chin which ever and anon came to meet it over the sunken

And I beheld myself, but not mouth between. A blue plaiding petticoat and short

As I had pictured me; brown cloak completed the visible array of this emissary Oh, God! that I should bear the thought of darkness. I made a dead halt-a numbness seized all my

Of such deformity! faculties—a cold sweat trickled from my brow-I became giddy. The landscape, witch and all, got into motion.

It was, I see it must have been,

Her malice drew me so ;" She is wafting me to Pandemonium,” thought I," and

A likeness ! yet, most frightful in has taken a shred of the world for her vessel : I am a

Those lineaments of woe! lost mortal, and my blood will be upon my own head. Oh! that I had followed Jock Tamson's friendly advice

She saw it in her dream; 'twas this about the rowan-tree twig! I might by this time have

That to her glowing cheek been roasting the trouts at my own fire, instead of being

Threw the cold creeping chilliness, roasted along with them in the fire of the Evil One!" Such

The melancholy streak ;were my reflections; for though unable to stir hand or foot, I had full consciousness of my awful situation. On

She smote her white hand on her brow, we went, till at last the moon made her appearance,

And flung each raven tress which convinced me that our progress was upwards.

Back, like a cloud amid the glow This sent a gleam of comfort through me, knowing, as I

Of her pale loveliness ; did, the directly opposite tendency of the person who had me in tow. Then the idea struck me that the witch's

Then breathed another name a new, intention might be to carry me up for a mile or two, and

A loathed name to me :cast me to the ground, where I would certainly be dashed

The dream was but a dream I drew to pieces. I was all the while steadily regarding the old

In my heart's jealousy! carline, who kept continually grinning and laughing, and nodding her monstrous cowl in my face. At length she The next poem we shall give from the heap of comexclaimed, “ Oh, man, ye hae been a wearifu' time wi' munications, in the midst of which we sit half buried, thae coals, though ye kend weel eneuch I was to hae a does not possess so much originality as the preceding, but bit roast at denner-time !"

has merit sufficient to entitle it to a place even here, and * My life is not worth much now," thought I; “I its merit therefore cannot be very trifling :

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The desert spring! the desert spring !

By thee may rest the timid deer ; The spirit dove * his mate may bring,

To woo in tranquil safety here ; Far in the lonely wilds to prove The rapture and the truth of love!

The desert spring ! the desert spring!

Oh, that it were but mine to share, Now that my heart's a faded thing,

A portion of thy calmness there, And bid my sádden'd bosom know One feeling, yet untinged with woe. The desert spring ! the desert spring !,

O'er thee my tears are pour'd in vain ; The loved and lost thou canst not bring

Back to my blighted heart again ; Yet thou hast brought one hour of rest, And dreams of all I loved the best.

O! sweet Bessy Poesy !

There's owre mony wooing at her,
Harping at her, canna get her,

0! sweet Bessy Poesy !

What a din and clitter-clatter! Brougham some time ago, in a very Mechanics'-Magazine sort of way, said, that the “ schoolmaster was abroad.” Had he been a poet, he would have said that A pollo and the Nine Muses were abroad, for certes, they are so with a vengeance. People talk of the spread of knowledge and the spread of religion, but the spread of poetry beats all other spreads hollow. Weavers and masons we could have endured—nay, rejoiced in them ; but where may they not ensconce themselves at last, when we find that the Muses have made their way even into the Cowgate of Edinburgh ? Ye gods ! have we lived to have a correspondent in the Cowgate? Yes ;-Mr Thomas Brownlee, come forth! Thou art a most ingenious and amusing character, and both thy letter and thy lines, in all their exquisite naiveté, shall grace our pages:

TO THE EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.

The desert spring! the desert spring !

Thou art a drear and lonely one,
Yet o'er thee this poor wreath I fling,

A token from a heart as lone,
To bid the wanderer, worn and sere,

Seek for repose and comfort here. There is something lively, piquant, and striking in the effusion we shall next usher into the full blaze of day :

o! SWEET BESSY POESY !-A SONG.

By John Nevay.
Far 'mong glens and mountains wild,

Where bees gather Hybla honey,
Wonneth nature's darling child,

Ever young, and wild, and bonny;
Blooms her bower in greenwood dell,

Haunt of streams, and birks, and braken;
Lovers mair than tongue can tell,

There her love aye try to waken.

Cowgate, Edinburgh, 25th May, 1830. Sir,—Having had occasion to borrow a glue-pot from a friend of mine, after heating it, a fly, commonly called in this country a spin-maugie, unfortunately fell into the pot of glue, which has afforded me an opportunity of composing the following little poem on it; and when you take into consideration that it is my first attempt, I flatter myself it is a little above the common, which you will, no doubt, discover, when you peruse it. Pray do me the honour to insert it in your excellent Journal, that the poem may not lie dormant from the eyes of the public ; and if I should succeed in meeting the approbation of the world in this my first attempt, I shall attempt a second on a larger scale, viz, on the industry of the bee. Means time,

I have the honour

Simply to be
Your obedient humble servant,

Thomas BrowNLEE.

Chorus. O! sweet Bessy Poesy !

There's owre mony wouing at her, Harping to her, canna get her,

O! sweet Bessy Poesy ! What a din and clitter-clatter!

." The spirit dove." The Indians call the wild pigeon" meme, and the wood dove, “ minato momé," literally " the spirit pigeon." It is worshipped among many tribes.

Beautiful spin-maugie! tell me true, How did you fall into this pot of glue ? One limb is fast, all the others are free! Beautiful spin-maugie! in this I see

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