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Good lack! I hope thou'rt not dead, currant bush,
For a doleful thing 'twould be,

To have no red currants when August comes,
And no red jelly at tea!

'Twas pleasant to pluck the luxuriant strings
Of the ruby beads that hung

In tempting clusters, ruddy and ripe,
Thy fresh green boughs among.

O! never glanced gems upon beauty's neck
With a richer glow of light,
Than the coral fruit upon thee, currant bush,
When autumn's skies were bright.

And I mind me well, six months ago,
How gladsome it was to see

The busy group of sisters small,

Who prattled and danced round thee.

And surely thou wert right pleased, currant bush,
To be rifled by such sweet fingers;
And of them, perchance, 'midst thy withering boughs,
Some faint remembrance lingers.

nie Dundee." As we are desirous that our readers should not exist a month longer without unravelling the wanderings of this princely stream, we are glad to present them with the following graphic sketch of its beauties by one who knows them well.

Poor bush! I pity thee much ;-and more
That thy fate has a touch of my own;
The April sun now shines on us both,

But not as it once has shone!


Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land !—Marmion.

Is there a Briton who has visited the Alpine scenery of Switzerland, the Italian lakes, or the banks of the Rhine, and who yet remains ignorant of the beauties of the first of British rivers? Let him take the earliest opportunity of correcting his omission, and of making him. self acquainted with the loveliness of the Tay, and its tributary streams.

If he follows my advice, he will convey himself, on foot, should he really wish to enjoy his tour, to the comfortable inn at Tyndrum, which I would recommend as the starting-post. Here he may watch the infant Tay struggling through the wild and romantic solitudes of Strathfillan, and coming into existence, as it were, under

the guardianship of the saint, whose memory is still pre

served in the recesses of Breadalbane.


In the whole range of creation, there is nothing more truly beautiful than a noble river; and what country more rich in rivers than Scotland? There is the Forth, which takes its rise from a small clear pool at the foot of Benlomond, and, after winding, for miles, like a silver thread through the wild and beautiful scenery of Stirlingshire, expands below Alloa into a broad and majestic sheet of water, rolling on slowly and silently to the German ocean. There is the Clyde, glittering in silver cascades through Lanarkshire, sweeping past Glasgow, giving beauty to Dunglass and Erskine House, laving the deep foundations of Dunbarton rock, supplying water to a hundred lochs, and at length mingling with the mighty Atlantic below the Cumbray Isles between the peaks of Ailsa and of Jura. There is the Tweed, the very Avon of our land, with its classic tributaries, the Gala Water and the Teviot, whose “wild and willowed shore” lives in immortal song. There is the Esk, or rather the Esks -the north and the south-tracing their origin up to the Grampian Hills, and, after finding their way, by different channels, through their native shire of Angus, meeting for the first and last time, just as they are passing into their common grave in the neighbourhood of Montrose. There are the Don and the Dee, the noblest of our Highland streams, whose course lies among rocks, and moors, and glens, and heathy hills, softening the stern aspect of the mountains of Mar Forest, and giving a softer beauty to the vale of Braemar. There are the Nith and the Annan, rolling on in placid quiet to the boisterous Solway-the streams which Allan Cunningham loves, and which we love too for his sake. There is the Devron, a river which hath for us a thousand happy associations, awaking at every turn the romance of youth, the chief ornament of Banffshire, making luxuriant the sweet valley of Forglen, sweeping round the foot of the green hill on whose brow stands the cottage of Eden, winding among the woods of Mount Coffre, sleeping in liquid crystal under the bridge of Alva, and finally meandering on through the noble parks of Duff House, as if loth to leave them for the rude billows of the Murray Frith. And last, though not least, there is the Tay, taking its source in the distant mountains of Breadalbane, and, after gliding under the nine-arched bridge of Perth, enriching the Carse of Gowrie, and flowing through a Caledonian Arcadia, until it swells into a frith, and ceases to exist "betwixt St Johnston and bon-gal, where the vale widens, previous to the junction of the

Proceeding eastward from Strathfillan, the traveller gradually finds himself in Glendochart. In the upper part of this glen, there is much variety in the scenery; the woods of Innerardoran, Lochdochart, with its island and ruined castle, and the stupendous masses of Benmore, by which the valley is bounded on the right, combining to produce a very diversified landscape. The lower part of Glendochart is more monotonous in its character, but the eye is at length relieved by the striking, yet simple, grandeur of Macnab's burying-ground, with its dark grove of pine-trees standing in the midst of the foaming torrent. After passing the bridge of Killin, the rude but sublime scenery of Glendochart is almost instantly exchanged for one of the most lovely landscapes which can be seen in Scotland. In front are the beautiful grounds of Kinnell, and beyond them Loch Tay, winding to the eastward, round the base of the lofty Benlawers. On the right, the eye is arrested by gently-swelling banks, clothed with rich plantations, among which, and looking to the lake, is the delightful residence of Auchmore. On the left, the Lochay slowly winds its way to join the lake through the gorge of a valley, almost unequalled in beauty, overhung by the magnificent woods which crown the heights of Finlarig, with the frowning ridge of Ben Cailliach in the back-ground. The Lochay is the first tributary of any consequence received by the Tay; and in the lower part of its course, it forms a remarkable contrast to the fierce impetuosity which characterises the de→ scent of the Dochart.

Perhaps it is owing to the extreme richness and variety of the scenery at the west end of Loch Tay, that the mid, dle part of this fine sheet of water does not possess such attractions as might be expected; but, as if to compensate for this temporary and comparative deficiency, (for it is only comparative,) the eastern extremity appears to vie with the west in beauty, although the character of each is essentially different; that of the former being, perhaps, more artificial, but not the less pleasing on that account, while that of the latter is altogether more wild and natural.

Following the course of the Tay as it issues, now a noble stream, from the lake, we pass the princely grounds of Taymouth, and find ourselves in the finely wooded valley of Strath Tay, studded on every side with various ancient castles and modern country seats. Here, on the right, the Lyon joins the Tay. Glenlyon, a very long and narrow valley, running from the most western part of Breadalbane, nearly parallel to Glendochart and Loch Tay, contains, within itself, some fine specimens of Highland scenery; and the banks of the Lyon at Fortin

Lyon and the Tay, may, for romantic beauty, challenge a comparison with any similar scene in the island. Further down the strath, on the right, the Tay receives the waters which have hurried to join it over the rocks and among "the birks" of Aberfeldy. At length we reach Logierait, at the junction of the Tay and the Tummel. The situation of this ancient residence of the Earls of Atholl is magnificent beyond description-just what we should expect in the castle of a Highland baron of old, guarded by two broad and rapid rivers, and at the same time watching, with jealous care, two of the principal entrances to the Highlands. The course of the Tummel is, comparatively speaking, so little known, that it merits a more particular description.

The traveller who has journeyed from Dalmally or Tyndrum to the King's-house, on his way to Glencoe, will recollect, between King's-house and Inveroran, a black, dismal-looking moor, with several small lakes scattered through it, stretching far to the east, and bounded on the south and north by lofty mountains. That desolate moor is the moor of Rannoch, and from these lakes a river proceeds, to lose itself at last in Loch Rannoch, which receives also, near the same place, the waters that flow from Loch Ericht. Loch Rannoch is the least known, but not the least beautiful, of the Perthshire lakes ;-the view to the south, when travelling along the northern bank of the lake, is particularly fine; for, besides that the southern shores are clothed with a great variety of beautiful wood, there is to be seen on the rising grounds behind, the remains of one of the ancient pine forests of Scotland, while, at a greater distance, Schiehallion rears his beautifully conical peak to complete the landscape.

Issuing from Loch Rannoch, at the village of Kinloch, the river proceeds through the district of Bunrannoch to Loch Tummel, exhibiting, in its course, all the beauties which are usually found in Highland rivers. Soon after leaving this lake, and foaming down Strath Tummel in a number of cascades, it is joined at Faskally, by the united waters of the Garry and the Tilt, after they have escaped from the romantic Pass of Killiecrankie, and a little further down it meets the Tay at Logierait.


scenery to surpass that to which I have thus feebly attempted to introduce him?

ted from that town. Even with the full recollection of Campbell's magnificent address to the Rainbow, we fear not to present our readers with the following lines by Mr John Nevay on the same subject. They came to us with the letter which we subjoin:

There is nothing which pleases us more than to meet with a fresh poetical mind. There is a poetical mind in Forfar, else the following verses could never have emana

Forfar, March 17th, 1830. Sir, If you condescend to look at these verses, I desacred hour, when the tragi-comic drama of poets and voutly pray the Muses that it may be in that merry, but rhymesters is performed, wherein some, for their intrusion "behind the scenes," receive a mortal drubbing, whilst others, for their fair and honourable wooing, are wedded each to the Muse he loves, by the power of your immortal SLIPPERS. I am, sir, your very humble servant, J, NEVAY,

From this latter place the majestic river rolls along, through a succession of splendid landscapes, to Dunkeld, where it is joined by the Brand. The scenery here is too well known to require description.


It will be sufficient to mention the names of the remaining rivers which join the Tay before it reaches the These are, on the left, the Isla and the Ardle, and, on the right, the Amond and the Earn. Were I to attempt to describe the scenery on each of these branches, it would savour of repetition, as all Highland straths and glens have a certain resemblance to one another, although, doubtless, each has its own peculiar beauties. I shall, therefore, content myself with drawing the attention of the stranger to the situation of PERTH, as seen from the heights to the southward of that town. When gazing onlysed unless destined to come into contact with the gethis scene of matchless beauty, containing all the various nial light which emanates from the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPfeatures that a painter could desire, from the rich culti PERS. From the many compositions which have reached vation in the neighbourhood of the town, to the blue us of late from the western shores, we proceed to select a Grampians in the distance, with the Scottish Tiber roll- few with which we think the public will be pleased. ing at my feet, I found myself involuntarily spouting We have already introduced Mr William Mayne to our the stirring lines which I have placed at the head of this readers. We think the following one of his most sucpaper; and I would now, in the words of the same poet, cessful efforts, poetical as they all are: ask him who has surveyed, as I have done, the beauties of the Tay and its Tributaries, commencing with the rugged fastness of Breadalbane and the desolate bleakness of the moor of Rannoch, and ending with Perth and the Carse of Gowrie,


"Where shall he find in foreign land"


Ethereal child of dark and bright,
Clasping the heaven as in delight,
While in thy soft and balmy arms
Glad Nature smiles with fresher charms,
And man and beast, and tree and flower,
Feast on thy shining and thy shower;
Thou coronal of summer's sky,
What art thou to poetic eye?—
An arch tri-coloured, rich and rare,
Whence hallow'd saints and seraphs fair,
In joyous bands, may view delighted
The genial earth with heaven united ;—
The grand harp of the Deity
With music in its chords for me,
Still pouring from its golden strings
An anthem to the King of kings;
While earth sends up her breath of balm
To mingle with the holy psalm ;—
The matchless banner-flag of Him
Who quell'd the rebel seraphim,
And in its stream of glowing hues,
Inwoven the verse of the holy Muse:
"Love, and peace, and felicity,-
Follow ye Christ, and these will be,
When sun and stars have pass'd away,
Your portion in eternal day.”

Rainbow! thou art like the rapt bard's thought,
Sublime 'midst the light and cloud of his lot,—
The radiant Iris that spans his soul,
In a heaven of fancy from pole to pole;

A thing all beauty, and softness, and fire,
Where hangs in glory his own loved lyre.

We are inclined to think that the living poets of the "west countrie" have been brought into notice principally through the medium of the Literary Journal. A few of them write occasionally elsewhere, but never so well as when they write for us. Their efforts seem to be para

By William Mayne.

Oh, how the fancy loves to brood
Upon those islands of the sea,
Where nature dwells in solitude,

Amid her own fair imagery;
Where the sweet earth for ever blooms
Among the purest of perfumes;
Where the rich fruits adorn the bough,
And bend it gracefully below,

Then, after journeying a time

That on the soft grass they may lean,
And blend their crimson with its green;
Where scarce a sound is ever heard,

Save some sweet insect's hum at even,
Or the soft warble of a bird,

Along a fair and flowery shore,
Are cleansed of that dark lake's slime,
And brightly wander evermore.
Oh, we were happy! full of bright
And pleasant thoughts, from morn till night
We seem'd like that pure family

Which God first planted on the earth,
Whose days as sweetly journey'd by

As though they own'd a heavenly birth.

Or the most tender sighs of heaven;
Where, on each mild and blissful scene,
The tread of man has never been,
To make its healthy glow depart,
And fix foul cankers in its heart:
Oh, how the soul would swiftly flee

To one of those delightful isles,
And leave the deadly misery

Which round man's dwelling darkly coils;
Where sorrow's wail, so wild and drear,
Would never thrill upon the ear;
Where we would never know again
The world's neglect-the world's disdain.

One of those islands was my own,
Placed in a mild and friendly zone;
In it I found that mellow peace,
And joy, and sacred fruitfulness,
Which I had thought was never given
To any but the loved of Heaven.
Nor was I all alone,-forsaken
Of those dear beings who awaken
Those fond affections in the soul,
Which bend it under their control,
And make the loveliest places lie
More dearly beauteous on the eye!
For from the far-off shore I brought
A gentle maid of kindred thought,
Who was content to tread with me
Unto the world's extremity,
In search of some secluded spot,
Where peace would bless our earthly lot.
One of those islands was our own,
And there we nestled all alone;
Nor was the world so far away
From where our lovely island lay,
But that we could perceive, when on
The heaven day's clearest radiance shone,
Beyond the dark and potent tide,
Which spread around us calm and wide,
Its outline on the sky defined,
Soft as a shadow of the mind.
And often, at the close of even,
When sleep's soft shades embraced the heaven,
Would we forsake our cheerful toil,
And from some fair spot of our isle
Look with a long and ardent view
Upon its dim and distant hue,
Until we had forgot that hoar
And helpless misery roam'd it o'er,
And that it ever drove us forth
As sickly creatures, nothing worth.

Three children grew our steps around,

As fair as aught which blooms below, And from their guileless hearts we found

Still sweeter streams of gladness flow : They grew around their mother's breast,

And clung there, like the smiles of morn, Which on the rose's soft leaves rest,

And even its loveliness adorn.
How oft I fancied they would spring
'Neath Nature's tender cherishing,
And other feelings never know,
Than those she kindly might bestow;
And though our bosoms were their source,

Be like those streams so calm and clear,
Which first begin their quiet course

From a dark lake, unblest and drear,

Alas! alas! who could have thought

That island's breast, which seem'd so fair,
Was with the earth-curse deeply fraught,

That death in secret revell'd there?
Who could have thought, who saw it lie
Upon the sea so peacefully,
Appearing, through the calm moonlight,
Like a soft slumbering creature white,
That it was doom'd to pass away,
As from a lake the April ray?

'Twas evening, and sleep's gentle wing
Was o'er us softly hovering;
But ere the middle of the night,
Among my dreams so sweet and bright,
There came a hoarse and heavy sound,
As if the sea had burst its bound,
And was on-rolling, fierce in wrath,
Shattering all objects from its path.
I started up, confused and wild,
And, horror-smitten, back recoil'd;
I saw our dwelling's outward wall
A moment reel, then forward fall,
As if to ope a fearful path
For the dark messenger of death.
I saw no more; one moment o'er

My wife my arm was fondly thrown,-
The next I heard the ocean's roar,

And its dread billows sweeping on,
And felt the waters round me chill,
And strangling me in their fierce will,
And spurning me their wrath before,

Like him who spurns a worthless foe,
And growling out a jocund roar,

As up I bounded from their flow.
Yet, in that black tempestuous sea,
My soul was wound to agony,

At thought of them, the loved, the fair,
Now rudely driven-I knew not where!
And round my arms I wildly flung
The heavy-swelling waves among,
In hope they might be strongly bound
My wife or helpless children round.
But there were none save I amid
Those mighty waters wild and dread!
I dash'd my head above the waves,
Which o'er me hung like moving graves,
And look'd a moment through the night,

To where I fancied was the isle;
But, ah! its fair peculiar light

No longer shed its blessed smile!
Nothing I saw, around, around,
But waves in everlasting bound.

I know no more, for frenzy cast

Its friendly darkness o'er my mind,
And hid the billow and the blast

The ocean had in store behind.
'Twas not the lashing wave o'ercame
The ruling spirit of my frame,
No, 'twas the agonizing thought

Which there, even there, with madness smote,
That those, my joy, my life, my light!
Would bloom no more before my sight,

Which made my wild regardless soul Back from my heart's embraces roll.

The beams of the succeeding morn

Upon me threw their calm disdain, And show'd me cast a thing of scorn Upon the world's cold coast again; The ocean safely roll'd above

That solitary isle of love,

And hid it in its secret breast
With all the wealth that made me blest!
Oh! often I have sail'd alone

O'er where that isle was wont to be,
Once smiling like a flowery throne,

Where peace might sit and rule the sea;
And I have fancied out the spot
Where rose our flower-encircled cot,
And o'er the calm wave I have hung,
And look'd the waters clear among,
In hope that cot I might behold,
Deep, deep amid the ocean's fold.
Alas! it was a fancy fond,

Which sometimes made me strangely start, As if I saw, the waves beyond,

The wife and children of my heart. Away! the ocean wrapt them deep Within a dark unbreaking sleep.

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From another Glasgow bard, whose sonnets in general find acceptation in our eyes, we have been favoured with the following communication:

Sir,-Slippers have long been appropriated to the feet, and for you it has been reserved, to show of how great benefit they may be in the more dignified service of the head. In your SLIPPERS, you have found room for both brains and feet,-a rhymester and a punster may be pardoned for making the remark. 1 have heard they are all sole; and no one can doubt there is the principle of life in them who judges from the last, and indeed from all. Perhaps, when you next resign the editorial pen to your SLIPPERS, you will be kind enough to recommend the prefixed Sonnet to their notice and indulgence. I am, sir, &c. NEIL CROSS.

Here is the sonnet alluded to:

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"T. B. J." is another Glasgow poet; but he has written this time in prose, and poets often write very sensibly in prose. We are not quite sure that we agree with the opinions contained in the following paper; but as it is fair that all sides of a question should be stated, and as the motto on our title-page shall never be lost sight of by us,-" Here's freedom to him that would write,"—we are well pleased to give a place to this temperate and candid communication:


Poetry's highest achievements were made long ago by the inspired writers. They breathed and burned from the lips of Job and of the Prophets, and were hallowed by the lyre of David. In after times, they were also revealed in the gloom and glory of the apocalyptic visions. From the admirable adaptation of such subjects to poetry, in imitation of the inspired authors, many writers of sublime genius have taken their plan, and characters, and scenery, from Holy Writ. Against such, however, there has been, and now exists, a loud outery; and to show the injustice of the censures heaped upon writers of sacred poetry, is the object of the following remarks.

It is alleged by wise and good men, that works of imagination, founded upon Scripture, tend to hurt the mind of the reader by mingling in his memory Truth with Fiction. To this objection it may be answered, that the poet should never bring forward any thing contradictory to divine truth,-his embellishments should all coincide with, and flow naturally from, those passages on whic his plan is founded. If, however, a bold fancy shoul overcharge the history with improbability, such, from it very nature, must be easily apparent, and have no power t hurt the cause of virtue. Thus, Milton's description o the devil's manner of tempting our first parents, althoug! not precisely according to the text of Scripture,—if í should assume in the mind of any the place of revelation is not calculated to produce any evil tendency.

Another and more frequent objection to poetry founde upon sacred subjects is, that it is sinful and dangerous t touch upon, or attempt to embellish, the Word of God


To this we think it a sufficient answer, that the histo-
rical portions of Holy Writ being merely a sketch work of
what took place, nothing can be more natural than for
the imagination to fill it up; and this can be easily done,
without failing to keep in view, at the same time, the
grand outlines of the picture. The poet should, however,
be very guarded in his expression and invention.
should imitate the Word, as he would copy the works, of
the Author of all things, by keeping truth ever before
him. He should not only be exceedingly careful of going
against what is written, but he should not imagine any
thing which is beneath the dignity of his subject.
touching upon themes connected with the vitals of Chris-
tianity, he should feel as if treading on hallowed ground,
and walk in the footsteps of the inspired writers with the
most high and holy reverence.


Instead of being prejudicial to the interests of religion, we believe sacred poetry, on the contrary, to produce the very opposite effect. Being arrayed in the garb of Fancy, the lessons of Revelation may be, and are, made to recommend themselves to the hearts of the heedless and unthinking. Medicine is administered to perverse children by being mingled with something more palatable; so, also, may be administered the medicine of the mind. In hours, too, of melancholy musing, and even upon still and solitary Sabbaths, have not the best men and Christians found a languor steal over them in monotonously poring upon the Bible? In such seasons, who has not found a pleasing relief in turning to the Paradise Lost of Milton, -the Messiah of Klopstock,-Gessner's Death of Abel, -Pollok's Course of Time,—or John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress?

No rule in Aristotle's Art of Poetry is accounted more excellent than that in which he states that a fine poem should be founded upon the probable and the marvellous. If this be true, the subjects of Scripture have these peculiar requisites ;-the mind having faith in their facts, and wonder at their miracles and events. There is a style of poetry which may be called the intellectual,-it describes men and manners, the power and the pathos of the feelings. There is another, and at present more favoured style, which dwells chiefly among the simple and sublime beauties of nature. But the highest style of poetry, in our opinion, is not that which discloses pictures of real life or of nature. Reality is not the realm in which the fancy loves best to expatiate; she loves to wander amid the unmeasured fields of possibility; to create beings and landscapes beyond the sun and the sphere of day;

disappearing; and that language, and ideas, and subjects of loftier character, will take their place. Moral beauty is the greatest and only true source of the sublime. And what can give finer scope for moving the deepest feelings than when the poet shall treat of religious hope and fear, the mysterious and the infinite, death and immortality, the greatness of Truth, and the beauty of Virtue? Let the writer of Sacred Poetry, then, continue with courage, and whatever the cant of criticism may say, let him be assured he will meet with a hearing from the religious and tasteful public. Let him take the advice of the blind master of English song, and seek a fitness for his studies" by devout prayer to the Eternal Spirit that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and send out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases." Glasgow.

"Above the stir and smoke of this dim spot Which men call Earth."

T. B. J. Returning now to the vicinity of Edinburgh, the subjoined poem, which we think fanciful and amusing, has come to us from a mysterious place near Dalkeith:



There reigns at present in matters poetical a perverted taste for subjects from ordinary life, for simplicity and familiarity of language, which has degraded the art of poetry in the eyes of many of its most genuine admirers. But it is hoped that the milk-and-water poetry is fas

Huzza for our Prince!-for no Prince is so great,
Ten thousand hobgoblins his mandates await!
They dive into ocean, they mount into air,
The tail of the comet they seize by the hair.

An earthquake's commotion they catch by the mane,
They say, We have raised thee, we'll bind thee again;
If tempest and darkness in fury should lour,
At a word they command forth the sun by their power.
They ransack every cave of the regions below,
Bring joints from the finger, the thumb, and the toe ;
Or plunge 'neath the waters, and fearlessly go
Where mermaids are rinsing their garments of snow.

If any one harm them, they swear in their ire,
Their bodies shall waste as the wax in the fire;
Tornadoes, as giants, they send forth to battle,
And murrain that seizes the herds and the cattle.

No rowan-tree can scare them, 'tis popular error-
They burst through the charm, and they strike men with

Some dance on a rope; in a twinkling they whirl
A thousand times round it, like freaks of a squirrel;
Now a jackal, a lion, an ape, a baboon,

Now on earth, now away on the rim of the moon.
The tombs are laid open, and, lo! there are seen
Ten thousand clay mansions where spirits have been ;
The bodies stand grinning in fearful array,

It is the duty of imaginative writers to be always giving the mind a view of something brighter and better than what is here; to bring forth speculations on the past or the future, and, by their spell, to etherealize them into a dim and shadowy effect. It is as if it were kindly al-But the souls have fled far from the regions of day. lowed to man, when driven from the paradise of earth by the sky-tempered sword of the Archangel, to awake, by the power of his fancy, a mental Eden of bliss and beauty. The all-engrossing interest which religious subjects have, fits them admirably for the attention of the poet. Homer seems to have known this when he interwove his nobly-invented Iliad with the mythology of his time. If this was the effect in the heathen writer, how much more must it be so with the more lofty revelations of Christianity! It has been said by the judicious Addison, that to be great in its subject and its character are the first essentials of a fine poem. Where can there be found such store of great subject and character as in the writings of



Into hare, cat, or greyhound, themselves they transform---
One instant a mountain, next moment a worm.

It is done! it is done! let us up through the air,
Some a cat, some a toad, some a greyhound or hare;
We vault with a bound from the mountain's far summit,
We seize on a moonbeam, we dance on a comet.
Huzza for our Prince! for no Prince is so great,
Ten thousand hobgoblins his mandates await!

Six Edinburgh poets remain upon our list. Come thou first, Mr D. MacAskill, a name we have seen before, though we have never seen its owner. Thomas Haynes Bayly, popular as he is, might have written the following verses with credit to himself :


By D. MacAskill.
They tell me that another's arm

Hath wreathed that waist of thine;
That from thy cheek the blush was chased
By other lips than mine ;-

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