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I thought of the woe and the carnage again

I look'd o'er the wave's distant foam ;
And the tear that had started at sight of the slain,

I shed for the friends of my home.

Oh' pleasant it is, on a far foreign shore,

To think on the days that are past-
It awakes the dull spirit that slumber'd before,

Like the rain 'mid the burning waste.

Was it hope or illusion my bosom that warm'd,

When I thought on the birch of the grove ; Like a wretch half-bewilder'd with magic that charm'd,

I heard the sweet voice of my love.

To the spot, O for ever be fetter'd my sight

With the sound ever charm'd let me be ;
Even this corse cover'd strand is a couch of delight,

When such visions my fancy can see.

were again revived, and he left Glasgow with a view of consulting two of his friends then resident in England. He had, however, only proceeded to Moffat, when he was struck with a kind of apopletic siezure, which in a short time terminated, in the very prime of life, the existence of a man, who possessing unquestionable ability, promised fair to be an ornament to literature, and society in general.

CCLXXII.

THE FISH-HAWK, OR QSPREY *.

Soon as the sun, great ruler of the year!
Bends to our northern climes his bright career,
And from the caves of ocean calls from sleep
The finny shoals and myriads of the deep,
When freezing tempests back to Greenland ride,
And day and night the equal hours divide;
True to the season, o'er the sea-beat shore,
The sailing Osprey high is seen to soar
With broad unmoving wing; and, circling slow,
Marks each loose straggler in the deep below:
Sweeps down like lightning! plunges with a roar t!
And bears the struggling victim to the shore.

[graphic]

This is another poetical extract from Wilson's Ornithology, illustrative, of the Fish-hawk, or Osprey, whose regular arrival at the vernál equinox, the busy season when fishing commences, procures it many a benediction from the fishermen.

The long-hous'd fishermen beholds with joy,
The well known signals of his rough employ;
And, as be bears his nets and oars along,
Thus hails the welcome season with a song.

THE FISHERMAN'S HYMN.

The Osprey sails above the sound;

The geese are gone the gulls are flying ;
The herring shoals swarm thick around,
The nets are launch'd—the boats are plying;

Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep,

Raise high the song, and cheerly wish her, Still as the bending net we sweep,

“ God bless the Fish-Hawk and the Fisher!"

She brings us fish-she bring us spring,

Good times, fair weather, warmth and plenty,
Fine store of shad, trout, herring, ling,
Sheep-head and drum, and old-wives dainty.

Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep,

Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her,
Still as the bending net we sweep,

" God bless the Fishs- Hawk, and the Fisher !*

She rears her young on yonder tree,

She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em; . Like us, for fish, she sails to sea,

And, plunging, shews us where to find 'em.

Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep,

Ply every oar and cheerly wish her,
While the slow-bending net we sweep,

“ God bless the Fish-Hawk, and the Fisher!"

CCLXXIII.

THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.

Far lone, amang the Highland hills,

'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens,

With weary steps I wander.'
The langsome way, the darksome day,

The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,

Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,

Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly ’neath the hazel bough,

And's scarcely seen by ony:
Sac, sweet amidst her native hills,

Obscurely blooms my Jeany, Mair fair and gay than rosy May,

The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,

I view the distant ocean,
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow,

Ambition courts promotion-
Let Fortune pour hor golden store,

Her laureld favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass o' Arranteenie.

CCLXXIV.

GO ROUND, MY WHEEL, GO ROUND.

Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

And spin a thread as long and fine,

As is the Gossamer's silky twine,
To form the veil that now must cover,
This heart that beats but for its lover.

* This is the composition of Gottfr. Aug. Burder, a German poet of consi. derable talent; much and deservedly esteemed in his own country, and from what we have seen of his compositions we hesitate not to say, that they need only to be faithfully translated to be generally read. In the Edinburgh Ma. gazine for 1818, will be found several translations of this eminent poet, and from which we extract the present “Spinning Song," not from the idea that it is the best, but the most suitable for our publication. In the same voluire,

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