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Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;

Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp of gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine

In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,

Who robb'd the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste.

Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

ZINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree:
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode,

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where the garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,
From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace,
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!

The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,
But patience shall never depart !

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,
In the days of delusion by fancy combined
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;

Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain.
May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate!
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain.
Shall wake not the sigh of remembrance again :

To bear is to conquer our fate.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

THIS poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, was born of comparatively humble parentage in Dumfries-shire. He began life as a stone mason; but his early literary ability was such that, being introduced to Cromek, the editor of "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," and undertaking to procure contributions to that work, he sent to the editor, as genuine remains, compositions of his own. These form the bulk of Cromek's collection. The cheat was long unsuspected; but the suspicious sagacity of the Ettrick Shepherd and others, especially Professor Wilson (see Blackwood's Magazine, Dec. 1819), ultimately demonstrated the imposition, much to the reputation of the real

author.

Mr. Cunningham repaired in 1810 to London, and, obtaining an appointment of trust in the sculptor Chantrey's studio, he settled himself here for life. In this congenial position of comfort and independence, he possessed opportunities for the employment of his active pen, and for intercourse with men of kindred genius. His warm heart, his honest, upright and independent character, attracted the affectionate esteem and respect of all who enjoyed his acquaintance.

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