lage." "Hush-don't speak a word, till we get clear of this black wood."-"Oh! my poor bitch, the best in the country-I shall never "Hush-hush-I am certain

see her again."

there's

some person under the old yew." "Never mind-let 'em come on-we're a match for any three at any rate." A crash in the hedge denotes that the Long Acre has been gained by the poachers, and that they are, with their booty, in perfect safety.

What had been predicted by the midnight poacher, with regard to the weather, is strictly correct. The first fearful indications are apparent by faint gleams of light thrown over the prevailing darkness of the scene, which, if possible, is made more horrible by the hooting and shouting of the owls-"Tu-tu-wo-wo-o”—“ Tu—

tu-wo-wo-o

"Wo-0-0-0-0;" with

the horrid croak of the night raven ;

"The hateful messenger of heavy things,

Of death and dolor telling sad tidings;"

sights and sounds enough to make the flesh creep, or as though a host of spiders with their long claws were crawling-crawling along one's back. The giant arms of the tall timber trees are raised, like the prize-fighters', for the coming

fight. Every varied sound, from the lowest note of the compass to the highest, is breathed with a power and a potency which cannot fail to reach the inmost recesses of the boldest heart, to appal the firm, and to horrify the timid. But, bear the spirit nobly up. Good flows from everything.

Amid the many marvels of nature, there is one marvel, indeed, which, however unobserved, stands conspicuously out through all the peculiarities of this midnight picture. Every tree has its particular tone, which evinces its particular character, elicited, as both are, by the power of the midnight winds. Through a dark mass of Scotch firs, a deep roar prevails, like to the eternal surge of the mighty ocean. The light flutter of the aspin, trembling with fear and with the agitation of perturbation, forms a striking contrast to the deep cathedral diapason of the solemn yew, unmoved amid all scenes. The oak is firm and manly in its voice, and hurls the tone of defiance against all its enemies, in the tempestuous struggle. The linden and the hornbeam are shy and timid, uttering a more softened murmur. The elm is a note or two higher; and the ash, firmly clasped by the pertinacious ivy, is higher still. The graceful

larch breathes around a tone, somewhat higher than the diapason of the fir; while the willow, with her drooping tresses, utters a mournful sob. And as the thick rains come dancing to the earth, the tall poplar, with its graceful wave of recognition, and the weeping birch, sorrowing over the scene, breathe around a delicious fragrance—an incense thrown upon the altar of the King of Storms, as if to appease his anger, to allay the fury of his might, and to soothe the anger of his displeasure, by an offering emanating from the very heart.

Louder and louder still comes on the impetuous storm. The tall timber trees toss their branches on high. The whole wood is up in arms; and varied voices mingle in one universal

roar upon roar.

"As clouds thicken the night,

Hark, how the tempest crashes through the forest!

The owls fly out in strange affright;

The columns of the evergreen palaces

Are split and shattered;

The roots creak and stretch and groan;

And ruinously overthrown,

The trunks are crushed and battered

By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress."*

The big rain descends in torrents. The Spirit

Shelley's translation of a passage from Goethe's Faust.

of the Storm, enthroned upon the winds, hurls below his fiery bolts, as he hurries along. The black mass of clouds is cleft in twain by the forked lightnings. Crash succeeds to crash. The terrible artillery of heaven roll their thunders peal upon peal. The deep echoes of the wood are awakened from their slumbers, and they shout the alarm at the very top of their many-mingled voices. The monarch of the wood is laid prostrate, with a deep groan. The tempest-army still moves onward with a sweep of terror; and the roar, fainter and fainter, indicates that it will soon be lost in the dark distance. And behold! At the far distant extremity of the riding, the clouds are opening their sable vest; and the crescent moon comes forth and throws her brilliant beam up the long avenue, silvering the tops of the tall trees, dispelling the deep gloom below, and blessing the roost of the little bird-the bow of hope new bent in heaven-the herald of gladness-the messenger of peace.

THE WELLS.

Upon the sprynge of fresh welles,

Hopinge to dwelle and no where elles.

Gower.

Of welles sweet and colde ynow, of lessen and of mede. R. GLOUCESTer.

THAT man, be his station in society whatever it may be he attired in the regal robe, wielding the sceptre of a great empire for the achievement of all the mighty purposes of true greatness-be he clothed in the garb of the labouring artisan, handling the mallet and driving the chisel, and filling up his gap of existence by a life of usefulness to his fellow-creatures -be he possessed of power, swaying the destinies of nations by his matchless eloquence in the senate, advocating the great principles of heavenly truth and of human freedom-be he com