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headed by the mighty of the desert. and roe, combined with the vivid picThey rounded and passed the brow, and tures of which we have made such ample sloped upward on the other side, till the

use, cannot fail to render it popular. forest of heads appeared bristling along In an antiquarian point of view, it is the sky-line of the summit. In a few also highly interesting; for it embodies moments afterwards, as the sun was going down upon Scùr-na-Lapaich, and the far

a large amount of traditionary lore,

sketches of the clans, and fragments western hills of Loch Duaich, the terrible wide-forked tree came out in the clear

of Highland song, of much superior eastern sky on the top of the hill, and, merit to those which have hitherto crowding after, at least two hundred heads come into our hands. The disquisi--crossing, and charging, and mingling- tions, too, upon the disappearance of their polished points flashing in the part- some animals once indigenous to ing sunbeams, and from many a horn, Scotland-such as the wolf, the elk, the long steamers of the moss fluttering the wild bull, and the beaver-exhibit and flying like the pennons and banne

a great amount of research, and suprolles of lances

. The herd continued to ply a gap which has long been wanted file along the ridge of the hill,

and wheel in the page of natural history. ing below the crest, countermarched along the sky-line, till their heads and horns

One word to the authors—though slowly decreased against the light."

we fear our words must travel a long

way before they can reach them in a With such a book as this before us, foreign land. Why should they not we could go on alternately comment recast and add to their second volume, ing and extracting until we had broken so as to make it a single and unrivalled the back of the Number. Even now work upon the noblest sports of the we are dying to pilfer the account of Highlands ? If it has proved so fascithe late Glengarry's course with nating, as in truth we have felt it, in * Black Dulochan," and the no less the more cumbrous shape of notes, exciting history of the three day's ruse how much better would it be if issued, with a roebuck. But abstinence is a not as an appendage to the poems, virtue which is forced upon us in the but in a distinct and articulate form ? present instance, rather from the lack Perpend upon this, John Sobieski and of space than from any exercise of Charles Edward, at your leisure;

and voluntary discretion; and we shall now let us add, that we trust some of your leave the deer without further moles- more gloomy anticipations may fall tation for a season, hoping soon to en- short of reality; that the walks of counter them in person with our rifle Eilean-Agais, that little Eden of the somewhere about the skirts of Cairn- north, may again be gladdened by Gorm.

your presence; and that the sound of This is, we have no hesitation in your hunting-horns may once more be saying, the best work on deer-stalking heard in the woods of Tarnaway, and which has yet been written ; and the on the hills near the sources of the amount of information which it con- Findhorn. tains regarding the habits of the stag

THE BURIED FLOWER.

In the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charmed sleep,

Oft I hear the angel voices

That have thrill'd me long ago,Voices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow.
O, the garden I remember,

In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets

And the arching alleys ring!

O the merry burst of gladness!

O the soft and tender tone! O the whisper never utter'd

Save to one fond ear alone!

O the light of life that sparkled

In those bright and bounteous eyes ! O the blush of happy beauty,

Tell-tale of the heart's surprise !

O the radiant light that girdled

Field and forest, land and sea, When we all were young together,

And the earth was new to me!

Where are now the flowers we tended ?

Wither'd, broken, branch and stem ; Where are now the hopes we cherish'd ?

Scatter'd to the winds with them.

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!

Nursed in hope and rear'd in love, Looking fondly ever upward

To the clear blue heaven above:

Smiling on the sun that cheer'd us,

Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness

Save to give it forth again :

Never shaken, save by accents

From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles

At the wooing of the bee. 0! 'tis sad to lie and reckon

All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth.

Sever'd-were it sever'd only

By an idle thought of strife, Such as time might knit together;

Not the broken chord of life!

O my heart! that once so truly

Kept another's time and tune,
Heart, that kindled in the spring-tide,

Look around thee in the noon.
Where are they who gave the impulse

To thy earliest thought and flow? Look around the ruin'd garden

All are wither'd, dropp'd, or low ! Seek the birth-place of the lily,

Dearer to the boyish dream Chan the golden cups of Eden,

Floating on its slumbrous stream ; Never more shalt thou behold her

She, the noblest, fairest, best : She that rose in fullest beauty,

Like a queen, above the rest. Only still I keep her image

As a thought that cannot die, He who raised the shade of Helen

Had no greater power than I. 01 I fling my spirit backward,

And I pass o'er years of pain ; All I loved is rising round me,

All the lost returns again. Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes,

Warmly as ye did before ! Bloom again, ye happy gardens,

With the radiant tints of yore! Warble out in spray and thicket,

All ye choristers unseen, Let the leafy woodland echo

With an anthem to its queen!

Lo! she cometh in her beauty,

Stately with a Juno grace, Raven locks, Madonna-braided

O'er her sweet and blushing face :

Eyes of deepest violet, beaming

With the love that knows not shame,Lips, that thrill my inmost being

With the utterance of a name.

And I bend the knee before her,

As a captive ought to bow,Pray thee, listen to my pleading,

Sovereign of my soul art thou !

O my dear and gentle lady,

Let me show thee all my pain,
Ere the words that late were prison'd

Sink into my heart again.

Love, they say, is very fearful

Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error

As the shadows scare the fawn.

Love hath bound me to thee, lady,

Since the well-remember'd day When I first beheld thee coming

In the light of lustrous May.
Not a word I dared to utter-

More than he who, long ago,
Saw the heavenly shapes descending

Over Ida's slopes of snow :
When a low and solemn music

Floated through the listening grove, And the tbrostle's song was silenced,

And the doling of the dove: When immortal beauty open'd

All its grace to mortal sight, And the awe of worship blended

With the throbbing of delight. As the shepherd stood before them

Trembling in the Phrygian dell, Even so my soul and being

Own'd the magic of the spell;

And I watch'd thee ever fondly,

Watch'd thee, dearest, from afar, With the mute and humble homage

Of the Indian to a star.

Thou wert still the Lady Flora

In her morning garb of bloom ; Where thou wert was light and glory,

Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom. So for many a day I follow'd

For a long and weary while,
Ere my heart rose up to bless thee,

For the yielding of a smile,-
Ere thy words were few and broken

As they answer'd back to mine,
Ere my lips had power to thank thee

For the gift vouchsafed by thine. Then a mighty gush of passion

Through my inmost being ran ; Then my older life was ended,

And a dearer course began.

[graphic]

Dearer!—0, I cannot tell thee

What a load was swept away, What a world of doubt and darkness

Faded in the dawning day!

All my error, all my weakness,

All my vain delusions fled : Hope again revived, and gladness

Waved its wings above my head. Like the wanderer of the desert,

When, across the dreary sand, Breathes the perfume from the thickets

Bordering on the promised land; When afar he sees the palm-trees

Cresting o'er the lonely well, When he hears the pleasant tinkle

Of the distant camel's bell :

So a fresh and glad emotion

Rose within my swelling breast, And I hurried swiftly onwards

To the haven of my rest.

Thou wert there with word and welcome,

With thy smile so purely sweet ; And I laid my heart before thee,

Laid it, darling, at thy feet!

O ye words that sound so hollow

As I now recall your tone! What are ye but empty echoes

Of a passion crush'd and gone ? Wherefore should I seek to kindle

Light, when all around is gloom ? Wherefore should I raise a phantom

O'er the dark and silent tomb ?

Early wert thou taken, Mary!

In thy fair and glorious prime, Ere the bees had ceased to murmur

Through the umbrage of the lime. Buds were blowing, waters flowing,

Birds were singing on the tree, Every thing was bright and glowing,

When the angels came for thee. Death had laid aside his terror,

And he found thee calm and mild, Lying in thy robes of whiteness,

Like a pure and stainless child. Hardly had the mountain violet

Spread its blossoms on the sod, Ere they laid the turf above thee,

And thy spirit rose to God.

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