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For the deep shadows that from others hide
And their tones came sweetly on the ear
In the summer's gentle calm.
Her calm and serious look,
And with her soft, sad eye upraised, longed to a country where genius, so humble as mine,
Seem'd full of the holy book. still continues to be so warmly acknowledged and esteemed ?
My father and my mother knelt, Lord Byron. The very first poem that has come into
And we knelt round their chair, my hand, has a personal reference also. It is a cleverly
And with devout and humble heart, executed translation into French, of one of my minor
Was said the evening prayer.
And then, upon our humble board,
We had our plain, light food,
And our old father rose, and bless'd
The Giver of all good.
And then, upon our humble beds,
We sought our tranquil rest;
And sweet and holy is the sleep
Tbat falls on childhood's breast.
And dear and happy was my home
Near to the Solway's tide;
But sin, and shame, and sorrow came,
And then my father died.
There was a youth-a tall, pale lad,
With dark and troubled brow;
I loved him fondly-fondly then
Ah, me! I love him now.
He never loved ;-that matters not ; Et ressemble aux coteaux, qui sont baignés par la mer.
He spoke with flattering tongue : Ci-git le soldat qui est pâle et defiguré,
I listen'd to his treacherous words,
And I was frail and young.
Time onward pass'd ;-the moon shone bright
When the dark glade I won; Les veuves dessollées fendent les airs par leurs cris;
The fair sweet babe smiled in my face,
And yet the deed was done.
He never loved ;—he laugh'd to scorn
dy-one whom I
The wretch thus stain'd with crime ; knew and esteemed in days gone by, and who, had she
And I was banish'd from my homebeen ambitious of fame, might have convinced the world
My friends—my native clime. that the north of Scotland could produce an L. E. L., or even a Felicia Hemans, as easily as the south of Eng
And then my gentle mother droop'd, land. Fame, however, was never her object. She wrote
And none were near to save, out of the inspiration of her own heart, and blushed to
And soon she slept her long last sleep find her compositions admired. She has now almost
In my old father's grave.
M. N. forsaken the muses, for the no less engrossing and still Burns. I should like to know the authoress of that more endearing duties of a wife and nother. I think poem. I would lay my life that she is beautiful, for a you will like this poem for its simplicity and gentle pa- lovely mind is commonly accompanied by a lovely person. thos. (The Editor reads.)
The Evitor. You could never make a safer wager. THE FEMALE CONVICT'S DREAM.
Shelley. Who is Thomas Tod Stoddart? There is
strength and genius here. I predict that he is destined There was a dream, like a gleam of light,
to be known among the best of your poets. (Shelley Tbat o'er my bosom came :
reads.) Methought I was in the happy home, That I left in sin and shame ;
By Thomas Tod Stoddart.
My latest love !—it hath its deep
Devotion toward thee;
My earliest it was the sleep
And the dream of infancy.
It riseth into song the vow
That I were slow to swear,
Were not the feeling on my brow
Of fever burning there.
TO A LADY.
And the children stood with quiet looks,
And sang the evening psalm,
Amid the golden and the gray,
The golden hours that glide
On to their evening away
She set her down on the lanely lawn,
Where the simmer flowers war bloomin',
An' there she sat till the day did dawn,
Frae the gray fa' o' the gloamin'.
But the sterns sae bricht through the live-lang nicht,
That aye war wont to cheer her,
Could bring to her bosom nae delicht,
Whan her lover cam nae near her.
And whan the day began to dawn,
And the moon resign her splendour,
There cam an auld man down the glen,
And slaw, slaw did he wander ;
Fu' sair wi' grief he seemd oppress’d,
An' the locks his head that cover'd,
War hoary as the clud o' mist
That o'er the inountain hover'de
The maiden met him at the rill,
An' wish'd his woe to saften,
But the mair it seem'd his heart to fill,
An' he wiped his ee fu' aften.
Oh! sad was the tale whan ance begun,
That he did there discoveri
That nicht he'd lost an only son,
And she an only lover!
Lord Byron. Here is a brief, bold, energetic thing,
which suits my ideas of what a soldier's song should be Is sleeping-ay, it will
as he winds through the mountain pass with his musket Glide up into my heart, and then
on his shoulder. (Byron reads.) My warm blood will grow chill.
THE SOLDIER'S SONG,
My ornaments are arms,
My pastime it is war,
My bed is cold upon the wold,
My lamp yon star.
My journeyings are long,
My slumbers short and broken ;
From hill to hill I wander still,
Kissing thy token.
I ride from land to land, world several of Mr Stoddart's productions. He is a
I sail from sea to sea; young man ; and I have had experience enough to know,
Some day, more kind I fate may find, that it is difficult to calculate the exact bent that young
Some night kiss thee. ininds will ultimately take; but this I will venture to say, Byron. In a different style, but good too, I find the that there is in Stoddart either the spoiling or the making, following sonnet by the same author, (Byron reads.) as he himself may choose, of one of the first poets of the day.
Burns. I am aware that Riddell--for I take an interest in all that has been going on there since I left Scot- Friend of my childhood ! many a weary day land_has written a number of pastoral and national songs.
Hath pass'd since first I listen'd to thy tale, I am glad to see one of them among the papers now be
Since first I saw thee borne before the gale fore me. (Burns reads.)
To the wild shore, or mark'd thy devious way
On yon far isle. How oft, when ev'ning gray
Came darkling down upon the peacefal vale,
Ilushing all noises save the streamlet's wail,
How oft with thee I've charm'd the hours away!
Ilow bave I joy'd when thou a smile didst wear,
In garnishing thy habitation wild;
And mourn’d to mark upon thy cheek the tear
Shed for thy friends from whom thou wast exiled : The e'ening breeze blew sweeter ;
Easily then my youthful heart could bear
Part or in joy or woe-a free and simple child.
The Editor. You will perhaps permit me to mingle Oh! as she hied her on her way,
with our poetical dessert a little of the more substantial The little birds drew near her,
I think you will be amused with this And they that sang at close o' day,
Irish legend. (The Evrror reads.)
CORRIN TUIERNA, OR THE LORD'S ROCK--AN IRISH LEGEND.
By R. Shelton Mackenzie. War the glossy ringlets in their hue,
Few parts of Ireland enjoy such a wild and luxuriant That roun' her brow war wavin'.
profusion of rich and varied scenery as pature bas bestowed
TO ROBINSON CRUSOE.
dish of prose.
upon the little town of Fermoy, in the north of the county as the Roman says, is a sad obliterator. Of all that of Cork. Until a late period, this beautiful and romantic graced the tables on that happy day, we have no record, spot was comparatively unknown to the public. The un- except the brief one supplied by tradition, which menassisted energies of one individual elevated it from a petty tions that potatoes were served up dressed in one hundred and paltry village, to the somewhat honourable distinc- different ways! If this be true, the honour of introdution of being—what it is universally admitted to be—the cing that valuable esculent to Ireland must cease to behandsomest country town in Ireland."
long to the gallant, but unfortunate, Raleigh. At the south of Fermoy there stands, in mighty and After the feast--for then, as now, good eating and solitary grandeur—as if the guardian of the place--a lofty drinking were the bandmaids of all solemn achievements mountain, named CORRIN THIERNA, Anglice, “ The Lord's --the child was handed to the apostle for the purpose of Rock.” In Ireland there is a legend or tale attached to obtaining a blessing ; for they deemed it no harm to obalmost every thing; and the following circumstances have tain one from so holy a man. The Saint, remembering long been current among the peasantry of the place as the all the ills inflicted on him by the sept of the Barrys, "full and true particulars” why the mountain in question invoked all the powers under his control to accomplish a has obtained its regal appellation.
work of retributive vengeance. He, to the astonishment It is said that, in the fifth century, when Christianity, of all present, declared that the child-unless miracuunder the auspices of St Patrick, (the first missionary lously preserved from it by Providence-would be drownto Ireland,) was making rapid progress through the king-ed between his fifth and sixth years. The joy of the dom, the province of Munster was divided into four mo- assembly was converted into weeping and wailing, and narchies. The district in which Fermoy lies, was under the Barry More, to avert the threatened evil, offered to the iron sway of the Barry family. The chief of this become, with his people, of the Christian belief. The extensive sept denied the truth of the Apostle's doctrines, offer was accepted; the nation became Christian, but the derided his austere life, and scoffed at his simple man Saint preserved, in terrorem, the denunciation over the
St Patrick unremittingly endeavoured to wean fate of Barry Beg--the young Ascanius of this petty the petty but proud monarch from the idolatrous worship kingdom-declaring, that when the sentence had once of his forefathers. His exertions, however, were most passed the portal of his lips, it was out of his power to unsuccessful.
So little impression did his precept or change or revoke it ; Providence, however, might do so. example make upon King Barry More, (or the Great,) The king, anxious to remedy or avert the anticipated that on two several occasions he treated the Missionary evil, commenced building a castle on the mountain which with such contumely, as even to call forth the indigna- we have already mentioned. His intent was to confine tion of some of his own subjects. He placed the Saint his child therein, from his fifth to his sixth year, when up to his reverend neck in the middle of a large pond, the doom would have passed away. Owing to the great (which is yet shown in stagnant viridity at the foot of height of the mountain, a considerable time elapsed bethe mountain,) leaving to his own miraculous skill the fore the stones requisite for the proposed erection could task of extricating himself from his peril. He did es- be raised to such an elevation, At length the work be. cape from the toils of his enemy; but there was little of gan. The building grew under the hands of the workmiracle in the means he employed, as it is said he prac-men, and on the day the young prince attained his tifth tised the more easy method of swimming to land. On year, it was ready for his reception. He was conveyed another occasion, his Pagan foe bound him like Samson to his destined residence, and, of course, a feast was pre
-in brazen fetters, and put him in extreme bodily fear, pared. When, however, the hour of revelry approached, by placing a deathsman over him with an impending axe, he was sought, and sought for in vain. In a few days, threatening instant separation of his head from his body his corpse was found in a sinall reservoir of water, which -doubtless, to discover whether his saintly powers would had been used for the purpose of building. The king, stand him in stead sufficiently to enable him to walk whose vacillation and indifference in matters of Christian without that useful appendage, as did one of his followers faith, had excited the fulfilment of the prophecy, immeat a later day.
diately cursed the Apostle, and the castle fell down on him The Saint bore all these indignities with proper pa- and his guests, leaving to another branch of the family tience. He knew that the time of reckoning would yet the purple and the sceptre. arrive, and as they, in these degenerate days, score up From this awful event arises the name of the mounbehind the door the current account of whisky drank and tain, at least popular belief affirms so. unpaid for, so did he write down on the tablet of his The above commonly received legend, is derived from memory the account of injuries received and unavenged. oral tradition, The ruins of the castle remain on the Barry More had— doubtless following the probable ex- mountain's top- or thus do the peasantry account for the ample of his father a wife, who was “ as women wish presence of a large heap of stones, which form an apex to to be who love their lords ;” and she determined to pre- the hill. The noble family of Barrymore, the earldom sent, in the usual fulness of time, a Barry Beg (or Little of which has recently become extinct, are the lineal deBarry) to the longing and loyal hopes of the small king-scendants of the king named in this legend, and a castle dom over which she presided in all the lordliness-or forms the crest of the family to this day. ladyness of ancestral power. At length the young Prince was born. . The Saint was sent for to attend the Burns. I have a great attachment to the custom of sem christening—if we may so term a ceremony, which then renading which prevails in Italy and Spain, and other was merely conferring a name upon a child, without the southern countries. It is a beautiful and innocent mode solemn attendant circumstances which sanctify the rite of rendering homage to the girl of one's heart ; and what in modern days. In his character of a Christian priest, picture can be more delightful to the imagination tban Saint Patrick might as well have been absent at such a that of a fair creature laying the riches of ber golden time, but as a Roman of high descent, (hence his name tresses, and her warm and rosy cheek, upon her snowPatricius,) he was a guest, whose presence would dignify white pillow, and catching, ere she closes her blue eyes the event. . A catalogue of the choice viands served up for the night, and drops into tranquil slumber, a strain to please the fancies of the guests would, doubtless, be of of soft melody from without, mingled with the perfumes considerable use to modern epicures, but “edax tempus,” of the breathless summer night, and yet more delightfully
mingled with the manly voice of one she loves best, al. * This individual was the late Mr Anderson, the first projector of though she has hardly dared to confess her passion, even mail coaches in Ireland. By a somewhat curious coincidence, the to herself! At such an hour, and under such circumintroduction of steam-carriages into the same island, and for the Bare purpose, appears to be reserved for his son, Sir J.'c, Anderson, stances, it must be heaven to hear the serenader's songBart," Mr Anderson was a native of Scotland.
some such song us this ;-(Burns reads, )
By William Wil:on.
Vibere amaranthine flowers are wreathing;
Ind list the lay that love is brcathing;
The gemlike star of eve is beaming,
The maiden moon is mildly gleaming.
The nightingale his love is hymning,
The holy convent bell is chiming.
Like wooer youth the breeze is sighing,
In pearl drops the dew is lying.
Every eye but mine is sleeping ;
Save thy love his vigil keeping.
Where amaranthine flowers are wreathing ;
And list the lay that love is breathing. Shelley. The style of that song is not unlike the subdued voluptuousness of Moore. And now that I bave mentioned his name, I cannot omit this opportunity of expressing to the Edrror my high disapprobation of the shulling and truckling manner in which he has presumed to talk, in his biography of Lord Byron, of that noble author's moral and religious principles. Mr Moore knows that during Lord Byron's life he assumed a very different tone, and unless he is prepared to state explicitly that he is himself converted from all his old opinions, he has no right to compromise his character as a man of talent, by pandering to the prejudices and the bigotry of the slavish multitude.
Lord Byron. Your remarks, Shelley, open the door to too wide a field of discussion, to admit of our entering upon it at present. To a certain extent I coincide in what you have said; but it is but justice to add, that I know of no man now on the earth whom I should sooner have bad for my biographer than Thomas Moore. In the mean.. time, I hold in my hand a poem which I shall read. (Lord Byron reads.)
Where, nestled in its bowers of green,
Tell him my hand was firm and true,
A tale the German widows rue.
Triumphs through our blessed land ;
Now are free from spoiler's hand.
Ask of thee in tones so sweet,
Lay my heart's blood at her feet." Burns. I am particularly interested in every thing that reminds me of Scotland. I have a pleasure, therefore, in reading this poem. (Burns reads.)
THE GREY-HAIRED PENSIONER.
An old man with a merry heart,
A constant and a willing part.
Who has seen twenty sea-fights, and
Of legs, to walk his native land.
Beside the parish kirk, to which
And often fills the elder's niche.
Although, a bachelor from his youth,
No children has he of his own, The village boys and girls, in sooth,
Are Andrew's family, every one.
His cottage, you will ever see
The old man joining in their glee !
When snows are deep, and tempest raves, They're welcome to his fireside aye,
And tales of battles on the waves.
THE DYING HUNGARIAX.
I've often thought, and I rejoico
To think, there will be many a one Out of that hearty crew of boys,
Who'll yet stand bravely by his gun,
" It was the last words of an Hungarian soldier, who died of his wounds on the grassy banks of the Danow: he adjured that river, as her streams were gliding to his own country, to commend him to his friends there, and tell them that he died no ignoble or unrevenged death, for the glory of their nation, and the increase of their religion."-Jucherear.
The sun has sunk, the day is past,
Or, 'loft among the shrouds, to hail
His country's battles won again; The hero in another tale
Of England's mastery of the main!
But as for Andrew, when rehearsing
His favourite story of the Nile, He little dreams he may be nursing
An infant Nelson all the while.
"Tis that he loves his little crew,
And has his own delight to please So many simple hearts, I trow,
He tells his stories of the seas.
“ Danow ! ere thou reach the sea,
So happy is he, though the half
Of Andrew lies below the sea, I've heard him often, with a laugh,
Sing o'er a sailor's jovial glee ;
THOUGHTS ON MY BRIDAL NIGHT.
ever the every day; but I am not aware that I had shall read both." (Burns Teads.)
And all the while, oh, man of fun!
his bridal night on paper, and his bona fide mode of hand-, In tune his stumps together knock;
ling this ticklish subject appears to me exceedingly amuAnd then he waxes witty, on
sing. Listen. (The Editor reads.)
Few men e'er proposed to write
Their feelings on their bridal night;
But I, who am of happier mood,
Will tell the thoughts that in me brood.
Then to proceed-Rosa 's my bride, which I hold in my hand. (Shelley reads.)
She 's free from anger and from pride ;
Her mind is pure, her thoughts sedate,
And her sole wish 's to please her mate.
Her eye, it glitters like a star,
And could guide me from afar.
Her hair is the finest ever grew,
'Tis slightly tinged with golden hue ;
And creeping down, o'erflows her breast, And gems the green earth, then I weep for thee.
And thus conceals her Cupid's nest. When the doll midnight knell 15 faintly penting,
The dimple on her cheek does play; Startling the silence of the old watch-tower;
It now appears, then Aies away,
Returns again, is loath to quit When through the forest's gloom, the night wind, stealing,
The face on which it loves to sit. Wakes, with a wizard breath, the moonlit flower ;
Her lily hand the ring does bear, When the rains beat, and, past the casement sweeping,
Her snowy arms the bracelets wear; The rushing wind Julls all the world to sleep,
Her fairy foot, and form divine, 1
Have thus subdued this heart of mine.
The clock strikes one, the dance st ends,
And for a coach my father sends.mathiri How like the bright dew in thy pearly eye!
The friends draw nigh, then farewell make,
But-at my wife a glance they take.', mbides When the rich perfume of wild ld woods is streaming
The men they grin, the women smile, O'er the glad valleys, through the summer sky,
Nou look at me, then her a while.
The roses climb my angel's face, Then do I weep for thee; but most in twilight,
And thus its features doubly grace. When the birds sing far in the forest's shade,
Her beads within her fingers roll, And the flowers shut their breasts for the pale moon
And prove the flutt'ring of her soul. light
My watch I seized, as if to show Doth not rejoice them like the sunny glade.
I'd not oppose themi, if they'd go.
The hint is good ; their backs they turn; 'Twas not the lustre of thy dark locks, twining
I follow all, as if to learn In rich, long wreaths areund thy forebead fair,
If they can rightly find the door, Nor yet the deep gaze of thy dark eye shining,
For I'd no wish to see them more. That made me love, though dove itself dwelt there.
When all was safe, up stairs I went,
My Rosa on her elbow bent; 'Twas, that in childhood thon wert by me ever,
She gave a smile when I appear'd, Smiled wlien I smiled, if I did weep, thou wept ;
I took a kiss, and soon she.cheer'd. Bright days, when we did cull earth's flowers together-
"My dearest love, we'll go to rest." Days, that wow, dreamlike, all have o'er us swept !
My wife she said, " I think it 's best.” But thou passld from me, like some gay bird, winging
As, reader, now we retire from view, Away into new reshmis of bliss its flight ;
We bid " Good night," and say,
4 Adieu !" Or, like a 'star, across heaven's blue arch springing, That, as we gaze, (withdraws its diamond light.
Omnes. Admirable ! Shelley (to the Editor). Can you tell us any thing
Lord Byron. I declare, "upon my honour, that I felt
exactly in the same manner on a similar occasion, and of D. Mac Aşkių, the author of these verses ? The Editor. Not a syllable. He has written me
had I written any lines on the subject, they would have several long letters, in which he evinces a considerable
been very much like these.
Burns. I have come to a communication to the Edi. acquaintance with a
a number of my personal friends, and in which, also, he gives me to understand that he sees humour, and is accompanied by a very sweet song. I
TOR, which is expressed in a pleasant vein of respectful me almost
him, I name mentioned by a mortal, or saw it anywhere ex
Forfar, August 2, 1830. cept in the LITERARY JOURNA I am beginning to Dear Sir,—I bave heard it said, that when one first sees think that there is something mysterious in this, and the new moon, it is lucky to have money in one's hand. am not quite sure whether D. MacAskill be altogether It certainly is lucky to be possessed of the one thing need
ful at any time, whether her Majesty of Night be waxLord Byron. You had better advertise for him, and ing or waning, but this, it must be confessed, is seldom insist on his giving you
ocular proof” of his ex the case with me. matter, I shall endeavour to be istence.
equal with those happy rogues of fortune, and thus, THE EDITOR, I shall think of it. Here is a truly ex when the periodical constellation of the Slippers shines quisite specimen of. naïveté in rhyme. Some unfortunate forth, glistening in the poetical horizon, I may have, poetaster has attempted to put the events and feelings of amid the beautifully-lighted galaxy, a little star of Par