SPEED THE PROW. Nor the ship that swiftest saileth, Storm and calm, to win the day; O'er life's ocean, wide and pathless, Time there was, 't is so no longer,- There my bark had founder'd surely, Now, though evening shadows blacken, Sail, though verging towards the tomb: Bright beyond,-on heaven's high strand, Lo, the lighthouse !-land, land, land! Cloud and sunshine, wind and weather, Life and death will soon be past; RECLUSE. A FOUNTAIN issuing into light Before a marble palace, threw Flowers on its grassy margin sprang, Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd, Birds midst the alder-branches sang, Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest. "Twas beautiful, to stand and watch The fountain's crystal turn to gems, Dearer to me the little stream, Whose unimprison'd waters run, Wild as the changes of a dream, By rock and glen, through shade and sun; Its lovely links had power to bind In welcome chains my wandering mind. So thought I, when I saw the face, -Her name and date from me conceal'd, She cast her glory round a court, From din, and pageantry, and strife, Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life, Yet in a bosom-circle reigns, No fountain scattering diamond showers, THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. Sow in the morn thy seed, At eve hold not thine hand; To doubt and fear give thou no heed, Broad-cast it o'er the land. Beside all waters sow, The highway furrows stock, Drop it where thorns and thistles grow, Scatter it on the rock. The good, the fruitful ground, O'er hill and dale, by plots, 't is found; Thou know'st not which may thrive, Grace keeps the precious germs alive, And duly shall appear, In verdure, beauty, strength, The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, And the full corn at length. Thou canst not toil in vain; Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, Thence, when the glorious end, The angel-reapers shall descend, And heaven cry-"Harvest home." JAMES HOGG. THE Ettrick Shepherd was born in Selkirk shire in Scotland, on the twenty-fifth of January, 1772. His forefathers for five centuries had pursued the same humble calling among the solitudes of the Ettrick and the Yarrow, and when but seven years of age, the destined poet was compelled to earn his own bread by herding the cows of a neighbouring farmer. He had therefore no opportunity to acquire the ordinary education of the Scottish peasant. Of all the bards of his country, he was the only one really self-instructed. BURNS, compared with HOGG, had the accomplishments of a gentleman. He was taught to read, and he wrote a clear hand. But the subject of our biography, was in his twentieth year before he learned the alphabet. Knowing by rote the words of ballads he had heard his mother sing, in his long leisure on the hills he compared them with the printed pages, and by such slow process, advanced until the hardest Scripture names could scarcely daunt him." The rough but forcible stanzas beginning "My name is Donald McDonald, I live in the Highlands sae grand," were sung throughout the empire before their author could distinguish a printed copy. of them from a leaf of Blackstone. About the year 1802, he went to Edinburgh with a flock of sheep, for the disposal of which he was obliged to wait a few days in town. He could His settled as a tenant on a large farm; in three This world-renowned periodical had been established by THOMAS PRINGLE and a Mr. CLEGHORN, who, disagreeing with the publisher, set up a rival under the auspices of Constable. Blackwood engaged WILSON, HOGG, and a few other writers, and continued his miscellany with such spirit and ability, that it soon acquired a vast circulation. The remarkable series of papers ever printed in a periodical, and instead of being merely invented, as may have been supposed, were for a considerable period adaptations of what actually took place at HOGG's lodgings. Among the Shepherd's various literary productions not before mentioned, were a compilation of " Jacobite Relics," and two novels entitled "The Three Perils of Man," and now write; he had acquired some local reputa-"Noctes Ambrosianæ," constituted the most tion by his traditionary songs and ballads; and he determined to have a small volume of them printed. He succeeded; the collection, which in his memoirs he declares was "extraordinar' stupit," attracted the attention of Scort and others in the metropolis, and increased the consideration with which the shepherd was regarded by his class. It was not successful in a pecuniary point of view; but he was ambitious and undaunted; he soon had ready a second volume, for which Constable paid him a hundred and fifty pounds, and with this amount, and another hundred received for a treatise on the management of sheep, he deemed himself a rich man. He unwisely 66 The Three Perils of Woman," published by Longman, for which the author received some two hundred and fifty pounds. HOGG was married in 1823, and embarking soon afterward in too extensive farming operations, he lost the money he had acquired by his literary labours. He laughed at misfortunes while he alone was a sufferer, but he could ill bear the presence of poverty in the home of his family. He visited London in 1833, for the first and only time, and like every stranger of distinction was cordially welcomed in the higher circles as well as by all literary men; but he returned even poorer than he went, and at the end of two years,-on the twenty-first of November, 1835, he died. He was a frank, generous, simple-hearted man; vain, indeed, of his abilities, but never unwilling to recognise genius in others. KILMENY. BONNY KILMENY gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree: For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedes-man had pray'd, and the deadbell rung, Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, blew. But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, When SCUTHEY visited Scotland in 1820, he remarked to Mr. TELFORD, his companion, that there was "one distinguished individual whom he would wish to see again-the Ettrick Shepherd, who," said he, "is altogether an extraordinary being, a character such as will not appear twice in five centuries, and differing most remarkably from BURNS and all other self-taught writers." He admired his peculiar and innate power, of which there are ample evidences in all his poetical works, however defective they may be as to the accomplishment of art." 66 When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, A still, an everlasting dream. And oh, her beauty was fair to see, In that mild face could never be seen. Oh, then the glen was all in motion. It was like an eve in a sinless world! Oh, why should vows so fondly made, To one who loved as never maid Loved in this world of sorrow! Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green, And all is dark desponding- THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place Oh to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth Where, on thy dewy wing, Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Musical cherub, soar, singing away! Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh to abide in the desert with thee! QUEEN MARY'S RETURN TO SCOT LAND. AFTER a youth by woes o'ercast, Her comely form and graceful mien Amid commotions, broils, and war. A queen so courteous, young, and fair- Who would not stand-who would not die? Light on her airy steed she sprung, Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew," Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen, When Mary turn'd her wond'ring eyes |