For the deep shadows that from others hide The broken hopes, the soul's self-urged rebuke, Converting into gall, dear Burns! thy heart's warm tide! Burns. Who would not be proud of having once belonged to a country where genius, so humble as mine, still continues to be so warmly acknowledged and esteemed ? Lord Byron. The very first poem that has come into my hand, has a personal reference also. It is a cleverly executed translation into French, of one of my minor #poems. I think I may read it, without too great an imputation of vanity. (Lord Byron reads.) P LA DESTRUCTION DE SANCHERIB. De Lord Byron. L'Assyrien comme un loup sur Israël descendit, D'or, de pourpre, et d'argent son armée resplendit; Sur l'onde comme des astres, on voyait les épées Refléchis dans le sein de la paísible Galilée. Comme l'arbre du forêt, que le printemps verdit, Car l'ange destructeur, ses ailes deployant Les yeux du dormeur furent pour toujours fermés, Ici s'etend le coursier, avec ses narines enflées, Et ressemble aux coteaux, qui sont baignés par la mer. Ci-git le soldat qui est pâle et defiguré, La rosée est sur son front, sa cuirasse rouillée; Les veuves dessollées fendent les airs par leurs cris; THE EDITOR. Here is a poem by a lady-one whom I knew and esteemed in days gone by, and who, had she been ambitious of fame, might have convinced the world that the north of Scotland could produce an L. E. L., or even a Felicia Hemans, as easily as the south of England. Fame, however, was never her object. She wrote out of the inspiration of her own heart, and blushed to find her compositions admired. She has now almost forsaken the muses, for the no less engrossing and still more endearing duties of a wife and mother. I think you will like this poem for its simplicity and gentle pathos. (The EDITOR reads.) THE FEMALE CONVICT'S DREAM. There was a dream, like a gleam of light, Methought I was in my father's cot, And round the fire stood a happy knot My father sat in his old oak chair, And he raised his aged hands to heaven, And the children stood with quiet looks, And sang the evening psalm, On to their evening away In the gray old autumn tide; My love is like the eastern star That in the chancel dim Lady! they do me bitter wrong, I feel it as a fount within Unquieted, and yet Pure as is sorrow for past sin I would be gay ;-as full of cheer But love like mine delights not in The viper in my every vein The longing of my soul is as Or pale child lying, corse-like, in Beloved! breathe, in kindness breathe Oblivion;-it must be A welcome unto one that hath No other destiny. THE EDITOR. I have had the pleasure of giving to the world several of Mr Stoddart's productions. He is a young man; and I have had experience enough to know, that it is difficult to calculate the exact bent that young minds will ultimately take; but this I will venture to say, that there is in Stoddart either the spoiling or the making, as he himself may choose, of one of the first poets of the day. SONNET. TO ROBINSON CRUSOE. 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. BALLAD. By Henry S. Riddell. She stole away frae the ee o' men The e'ening breeze blew sweeter; Oh! as she hied her on her way, An' like the wing o' the raven Hath pass'd since first I listen'd to thy tale, And mourn'd to mark upon thy cheek the tear Part or in joy or woe-a free and simple child, THE EDITOR. You will perhaps permit me to mingle with our poetical dessert a little of the more substantial dish of prose. I think you will be amused with this Irish legend. (The EDITOR reads.)' CORRIN THIERNA, OR THE LORD'S ROCKAN IRISH LEGEND. By R. Shelton Mackenzie. Few parts of Ireland enjoy such a wild and luxuriant profusion of rich and varied scenery as nature has bestowed 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 handmaids 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 almost every thing; and the following circumstances have long been current among the peasantry of the place as the “full and true particulars" why the mountain in question has obtained its regal appellation. obtaining a blessing; for they deemed it no harm to obtain one from so holy a man. The Saint, remembering all the ills inflicted on him by the sept of the Barrys, invoked all the powers under his control to accomplish a 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 ners. 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 fifth 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 small 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 and his guests, leaving to another branch of the family the purple and the sceptre. The Saint bore all these indignities with proper patience. He knew that the time of reckoning would yet arrive, and as they, in these degenerate days, score up behind the door the current account of whisky drank and unpaid for, so did he write down on the tablet of his memory the account of injuries received and unavenged. Barry More had-doubtless following the probable example of his father a wife, who was "as women wish to be who love their lords;" and she determined to present, in the usual fulness of time, a Barry Beg (or Little Barry) to the longing and loyal hopes of the small kingdom over which she presided in all the lordliness-or ladyness of ancestral power. At length the young Prince was born.. The Saint was sent for to attend the christening-if we may so term a ceremony, which then was merely conferring a name upon a child, without the solemn attendant circumstances which sanctify the rite in modern days. In his character of a Christian priest, Saint Patrick might as well have been absent at such a time, but as a Roman of high descent, (hence his name Patricius,) he was a guest, whose presence would dignify the event.. A catalogue of the choice viands served up to please the fancies of the guests would, doubtless, be of considerable use to modern epicures, but "edax tempus," *This individual was the late Mr Anderson, the first projector of mail coaches in Ireland. By a somewhat curious coincidence, the introduction of steam-carriages into the same island, and for the same purpose, appears to be reserved for his son, Sir J. C, Anderson, Bart. Mr Anderson was a native of Scotland. From this awful event arises the name of the mountain, at least popular belief affirms so. The above commonly received legend, is derived from oral tradition, The ruins of the castle remain on the mountain's top-or thus do the peasantry account for the presence of a large heap of stones, which form an apex to the hill. The noble family of Barrymore, the earldom of which has recently become extinct, are the lineal descendants of the king named in this legend, and a castle forms the crest of the family to this day. Burns. I have a great attachment to the custom of serenading which prevails in Italy and Spain, and other southern countries. It is a beautiful and innocent mode of rendering homage to the girl of one's heart; and what picture can be more delightful to the imagination than that of a fair creature laying the riches of her golden tresses, and her warm and rosy cheek, upon her snowwhite pillow, and catching, ere she closes her blue eyes for the night, and drops into tranquil slumber, a strain of soft melody from without, mingled with the perfumes of the breathless summer night, and yet more delightfully mingled with the manly voice of one she loves best, although she has hardly dared to confess her passion, even to herself! At such an hour, and under such circum stances, it must be heaven to hear the serenader's songsome such song as this ;-(Burns reads,) A SERENADE SONG. By William Wilson. Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, Where amaranthine flowers are wreathing; Ope thy lattice, my lady dear," And list the lay that love is breathing; 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. 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 have mentioned his name, I cannot omit this opportunity of expressing to the EDITOR my high disapprobation of the shuffling 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 had for my biographer than Thomas Moore. In the mean.. time, I hold in my hand a poem which I shall read. (Lord Byron reads.) THE DYING HUNGARIAN. "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."-Juchereau. The sun has sunk, the day is past, "Danow! ere thou reach the sea, Where, nestled in its bowers of green, latest words from me :- "Commend me to mine aged sire, Tell him my hand was firm and true, A tale the German widows rue. Now are free from spoiler's hand. 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. It is a pleasant thing to see I know a grey-hair'd pensioner And often fills the elder's niche. I've often thought, and I rejoice To think, there will be many a one Out of that hearty crew of boys, Who'll yet stand bravely by his gun, Or, 'loft among the shrouds, to hail Of England's mastery of the main ! '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. So happy is he, though the half When the e clear dewdrop in the flower dies gleaming,How like the bright dew in thy pearly eye! When the rich perfume of wild woods is streaming O'er the glad valleys, through the summer sky,→ Then do I weep for thee; but most in twilight, When the birds sing far in the forest's shade, And the flowers, shut their breasts; for the pale moonlight Doth not rejoice them like the sunny glade. 'Twas not the lustre of thy dark locks, twining That made me love, though love itself dwelt there. 1 But thou pass'd from me, like some gay bird, winging Or, like a star, across heaven's blue arch springing, Shelley (to the EDITOR). Can you tell us any thing of D. MacAskill, author of these verses? THE EDITOR. ta syllable. He has written me several long letters, in which he evinces a considerable acquaintance with a number of my personal friends, and in which, also, he gives me to understand that he sees me almost every day; but 1 am not aware that I had ever the pleasure of seeing him, and I never heard his name mentioned by a mortal, or saw it anywhere except in the LITERARY JOURNAL. I am beginning to think that there is something mysterious in this, and I am not quite sure whether D. MacAskill be altogether Then to proceed-Rosa 's my bride, The clock strikes one, the dance it ends,*^'^. If they can rightly find the door, She gave a smile when I appear'd, 7 As, reader, now we retire from view, "Adieu !" We bid "Good night," and say, Omnes. Admirable ! " Lord Byron. I declare, upon my honour, that I felt exactly in the same manner on a similar occasion, and had I written any lines on the subject, they would have been very much like these. Burns. I have come to a communication to the EDITOR, which is expressed in a pleasant vein of respectful humour, and is accompanied by a very sweet song. I shall read both. (Burns reads.) Forfar, August 2, 1830. Dear Sir, I have heard it said, that when one first sees the new moon, it is lucky to have money in one's hand. It certainly is lucky to be possessed of the one thing needful at any time, whether her Majesty of Night be waxing or waning, but this, it must be confessed, is seldom the case with me. No matter,—I shall endeavour to be equal with those happy rogues of fortune, and thus, when the periodical, constellation of the SLIPPERS shines forth, glistening in the poetical horizon, I may have, amid the beautifully-lighted galaxy, a little star of Par |