Now, not inaptly craved, commencing thus:- 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 Wooing the winds to pause "Till echo sings again, As on, with plashy step and clouted shoon, Of hips and pendent haws, And sloes, dim cover'd, as with dewy veils, Half o'er the narrow lane; And mark the hedger, front with stubborn face And cheeks red hot with toil! Wild sorceress! me thy restless mood delights Joy pall'd mine ear with song: Heart sickening for the silence that is thine— 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 They but prepare thy shroud! Thy pencil, dashing its excess of shades, Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream, In dirges for their queen! While in the moment of their weary pause, Snatching sweet scraps of song! Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries Forming with leaves thy grave! To sleep inglorious there 'mid tangled woods, THE RETURN. BY MRS. EMMERSON. THE joys of "Home" have oft been told, Again-Oh yes! and oft again The harp shall tune so fond a lay; 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! 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 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 |