headed by the mighty of the desert.' They rounded and passed the brow, and sloped upward on the other side, till the forest of heads appeared bristling along the sky-line of the summit. In a few moments afterwards, as the sun was going down upon Scùr-na-Lapaich, and the far western hills of Loch Duaich, the terrible wide-forked tree came out in the clear eastern sky on the top of the hill, and, crowding after, at least two hundred heads -crossing, and charging, and minglingtheir polished points flashing in the parting sunbeams, and from many a horn, the long steamers of the moss fluttering and flying like the pennons and bannerolles of lances. The herd continued to file along the ridge of the hill, and wheeling below the crest, countermarched along the sky-line, till their heads and horns slowly decreased against the light." With such a book as this before us, we could go on alternately commenting and extracting until we had broken the back of the Number. Even now we are dying to pilfer the account of the late Glengarry's course with "Black Dulochan," and the no less exciting history of the three day's ruse with a roebuck. But abstinence is a virtue which is forced upon us in the present instance, rather from the lack of space than from any exercise of voluntary discretion; and we shall now leave the deer without further molestation for a season, hoping soon to encounter them in person with our rifle somewhere about the skirts of CairnGorm. This is, we have no hesitation in saying, the best work on deer-stalking which has yet been written; and the amount of information which it contains regarding the habits of the stag and roe, combined with the vivid pictures of which we have made such ample use, cannot fail to render it popular. In an antiquarian point of view, it is also highly interesting; for it embodies a large amount of traditionary lore, sketches of the clans, and fragments of Highland song, of much superior merit to those which have hitherto come into our hands. The disquisitions, too, upon the disappearance of some animals once indigenous to Scotland-such as the wolf, the elk, the wild bull, and the beaver-exhibit a great amount of research, and supply a gap which has long been wanted in the page of natural history. One word to the authors-though we fear our words must travel a long way before they can reach them in a foreign land. Why should they not recast and add to their second volume, so as to make it a single and unrivalled work upon the noblest sports of the Highlands? If it has proved so fascinating, as in truth we have felt it, in the more cumbrous shape of notes, how much better would it be if issued, not as an appendage to the poems, but in a distinct and articulate form? Perpend upon this, John Sobieski and Charles Edward, at your leisure; and let us add, that we trust some of your more gloomy anticipations may fall short of reality; that the walks of Eilean-Agais, that little Eden of the north, may again be gladdened by your presence; and that the sound of your hunting-horns may once more be heard in the woods of Tarnaway, and on the hills near the sources of the Findhorn. 108 THE BURIED FLOWER. IN the silence of my chamber, Oft I hear the angel voices That have thrill'd me long ago,- O, the garden I remember, O the merry burst of gladness! O the light of life that sparkled In those bright and bounteous eyes! O the blush of happy beauty, O the radiant light that girdled Where are now the flowers we tended? For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones! To the clear blue heaven above: Smiling on the sun that cheer'd us, Never shaken, save by accents O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon 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 Where are they who gave the impulse Seek the birth-place of the lily, Never more shalt thou behold her- Only still I keep her image As a thought that cannot die, O! I fling my spirit backward, Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes, Warble out in spray and thicket, With an anthem to its queen! Lo! she cometh in her beauty, 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, O my dear and gentle lady, Let me show thee all my pain, Ere the words that late were prison'd 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, Not a word I dared to utter- When a low and solemn music Floated through the listening grove, When immortal beauty open'd As the shepherd stood before them Own'd the magic of the spell; And I watch'd thee ever fondly, 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. Ere thy words were few and broken Then a mighty gush of passion Dearer!—O, I cannot tell thee All my error, all my weakness, Like the wanderer of the desert, When afar he sees the palm-trees So a fresh and glad emotion Thou wert there with word and welcome, O ye words that sound so hollow 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, Buds were blowing, waters flowing, Death had laid aside his terror, Lying in thy robes of whiteness, Hardly had the mountain violet |