PRINGLE, THOMAS, a Scottish poet; born at Blaiklaw, in Tevi. otdale, Roxburghshire, January 5, 1789; died at London, December 6, 1834. He was graduated at the University of Edinburgh. In 1816 he wrote “The Autumnal Excursion.” In 1817 he began the publication of the “Edinburgh Monthly Magazine,” out of which subsequently grew “Blackwood's Magazine." He went to Cape Town in 1820, where he became the editor of the “ South African Journal.” Pringle returned to Great Britain in 1826, and in 1828 published a collection of his poems, entitled “Ephemerides." His verses on South African themes were issued in 1834 as “ African Sketches,” in the same volume with his “ Narrative of a Residence in South Africa.” A collection of his “ Poems" appeared in 1838.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side :
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I turn to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And the shadows of things that long since have fled
Flit over the brain like the ghost of the dead;
And my native land whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood — the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time

When the feelings were young, and the world was new,
Like the fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to view :-
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone,
And I, a lone exile, remembered of none;
my high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,

-weary of all that is under the sun;
nith that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
ty to the desert, afar from man!...
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
ith the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,

Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the koodoo and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in the wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ;
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbock's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view,
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
Away, away in the wilderness vast,
Where the white man's foot hatlı never passed,
And the quivered Coranna and Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan;
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread -- void of living sight or sound.

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
A still small voice comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying, “Man is distant, but God is near !"

THE HIGHLANDS. The Highlands! the Highlands ! - O gin I were there: Tho' the mountains an' moorlands be rugged an' bare, Tho' bleak be the clime, an' but scanty the fare, My heart's in the Highland's — O gin I were there ! The Highlands ! the Highlands ! — My full bosom swells When I think o' the streams gushing wild through the dells, And the hills towering proudly, the lochs gleaming fair! My heart's in the Highlands — O gin I were there !

The Highlands! the Highlands ! — Far up the grey glen
Stands a cosy wee cot, wi' a but an' a ben,
An'a deas at the door, wi' my auld mother there,
Crooning — “Haste ye back, Donald, an' leave us nae mair!”

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MATTHEW PRIOR.

PRIOR, MATTHEW, an English poet and diplomatist; born probably at Wimborne, Dorset, July 21, 1664; died at Wimpole, Cambridgeshire, September 18, 1721. In 1686 he was graduated at Cambridge. To ridicule Dryden's “Hind and Panther” he wrote a poem entitled “ The City Mouse and the Country Mouse." In 1700 he produced “ Carmen Seculare," a poetical panegyric on Wil. liam III. He held various civil and diplomatic positions, and was returned to Parliament in 1701. In 1711 he was made Ambassador at Paris ; but when the Whigs came into power, in 1714, he was recalled, and imprisoned on a charge of treason. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument was erected to his memory.

THE GARLAND.
THE pride of every grove I chose,

The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,

To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaft to place

Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,

The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day:

And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they looked more gay,

Than glowing in their native bed.
Undrest at evening when she found

Their odors lost, their colors passed ;
She changed her look, and on the ground

Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,

As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humor: prythee tell:

That falling tear — what does it mean?

She sighed; she smiled: and to the flowers

Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,

And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourished bright and gay,

Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung;

The amorous youth around her bowed;
At night her fatal knell was rung:

I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,

Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.

FOR HIS OWN MONUMENT. As doctors give physic by way of prevention,

Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention

May haply be never fulfilled by his heir. Then, take Matt's word for it — the sculptor is paid;

That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are: High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,

In a life parti-colored - half pleasure — half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,

He strove to make int’rest and freedom agree; o public employments, industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he.