Now, not inaptly craved, commencing thus:-
Beneath the twined arms of this stunt oak,
We'll pillow on the grass,

And fondly ruminate

O'er the disorder'd scenes of fields and woods, Plough'd lands, thin travell'd by half hungry sheep; Pastures track'd deep with cows,

Where small birds seek for seed.

Marking the cow boy-who so merry trills
His frequent unpremeditated song;

Wooing the winds to pause

"Till echo sings again,

As on, with plashy step and clouted shoon,
He roves, half indolent and self employ'd,
To rob the little birds

Of hips and pendent haws,

And sloes, dim cover'd, as with dewy veils,
And rambling brambleberries, pulp and sweet,
Arching their prickly trails

Half o'er the narrow lane;

And mark the hedger, front with stubborn face
The dank rude wind, that whistles thinly by,
His leathern garb, thorn proof,

And cheeks red hot with toil!

Wild sorceress! me thy restless mood delights
More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes;
Where, giddy with the din,

Joy pall'd mine ear with song:

Heart sickening for the silence that is thine—
Not broken inharmoniously, as now

That lone and vagrant bee

Roams faint with weary chime.

The filtering winds, that winnow through the woods In tremulous noise, now bid, at ev'ry breath,

Some sickly canker'd leaf

Let go its hold and die!

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,

In fitful gusts of anger carpeth loud;

Thee urging to thine end,

Sore wept by troubled skies!

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight
To show me visions of more gorgeous dyes:
Haply forgetting now,

They but prepare thy shroud!

Thy pencil, dashing its excess of shades,
Improvident of waste, 'till every bough
Burns with thy mellow touch,
Disorderly divine!

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream,
Droop faintly, and so sicken for thine end,
As sad the winds sink low,

In dirges for their queen!

While in the moment of their weary pause,
To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark
Starts from his shielding clod,

Snatching sweet scraps of song!

Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries
To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,
As stooping low she bends,

Forming with leaves thy grave!

To sleep inglorious there 'mid tangled woods,
"Till parch-lipp'd Summer pines in drought away—
Then from thine ivy'd trance
Awake to glories new.

THE RETURN.

BY MRS. EMMERSON.

THE joys of "Home" have oft been told,
And sung in many a gifted strain ;
Yet, can the theme e'er grow so old,
As not inspire again?

Again-Oh yes! and oft again

The harp shall tune so fond a lay;
It is (like Love) too sweet a strain
To ever die away!

Leave it awhile, a little while,

And from your kindred dwell apart,

From social bliss, affection's smile;

How lonely feels the heart.

If, in a stranger-land ye be,

And roaming 'neath a brighter sky What dwells so dear in memory, What wakes so fond a sigh

As absent "Home" restored to thee!
Each simple object seems more dear;
The heart then tastes felicity

In all we see and hear!

To meet again the smile of love,

And Friendship's gentle hand to press ; The fond salute where'er we move, While all things seem to bless!

It is a theme might well prolong
The Poet's best and choicest lay;
But mine can only breathe the song
Of joy, to hail the day.

I meet again "my own fireside !"

In bliss, or woe, or health, or pain, With thee I'll evermore abide,

Nor lose thy sweets again.

ABBOTSFORD.

[We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers a description of the residence of Sir Walter Scott, from the private letter of a distinguished American. The fame of the illustrious proprietor has flown far and wide; and his name has become a passport to his countrymen in every quarter of the globe where the glory of genius is acknowledged. The admiration which his numerous works have excited, naturally creates a wish to know something more of one who has delighted us all so much-to see the place where he gives himself up to meditation-the walks in which he muses, and the study in which he conceives and pours forth his magical productions. The pen of our friend has recorded his own impressions with great vividness and graphic vigour: to the aid of the pen we have brought the pencil, and rendered more complete the account of the distinguished tourist. ED.]

I HAVE been exceedingly unfortunate as to one of the chief objects of this northern expedition; in a word, it has been my luck to select for my visit to Scotland, the only month in which, for some years past, Sir Walter has been out of it. My good friend Rhad told me that by the 12th or 13th he was sure to be on the banks of the Tweed, and amply provided with letters of introduction, I quitted the mail coach at Selkirk on the 15th, without the slightest doubt that I was within an hour's ride of the great Minstrel, as well as of his castle. The people at the inn, too, confirmed me in my belief. "The Sheriff," so they called him, was, they said, sure to be at home, for "the session was up,"

G