While we stood looking on the scene before us, and thinking on the heroic race of kings who had enjoyed the towers and walked beneath the stately trees with which the park is crowded, we scarcely observed a little dark common carriage, preceded by a single rider, coming rapidly along the path towards the castle. The celerity of its movements, however, took our attention, and the beauty of the creatures which drew it; the dust rose and the pebbles flew, and now and then a hand was seen motioning the horses onwards-we could see no more— people bowed as it passed, and whispered together, and the palace gates flew open when the chariot approached. We were never curious-neither sight-seers nor cometgazers are we-but we were anxious now, whether we would or no. The carriage stopt, and a tall, straight, and well made man stept out and stood and looked about him for a minute or more-one said near us, "It's the King, God bless him." His Majesty heard the whisper and smiled and bowed and entered his palace. Farewell to Windsor and farewell to his Majesty. We are ourselves of small account in this little isle of his, and our opinion is of moderate value—but we cannot help saying that we love our King better for this graceful familiarity and generous notice of his humble lieges, than if he came amongst us clothed in kingly terrors, every step announced by trumpet and drum, and attended by the eager crushings of ten thousand courtiers.

ED.

MORNING.

POETIC fancy rules the hour,

And temple, tree, and stream, and tower,
And lovely forms, and gorgeous ships
Arise, as bold the painter dips

His hand,-light casting, like a cloud,
O'er that deep stream and city proud.
'Tis joy's own hour; dance, song, and mirth
Seem born, no more to die on earth;
Young beauty, with her dazzling hanks
Of hair, leads forth her charming ranks :
That very sunbeam loves to shine
On scenes so fair, shapes so divine.
Claims fiction all-hath truth no part
Lent of this marvellous scene to art?
Hath woe that sweet place e'er defiled,
Hath babe wept there or mother smiled ;
Hath critic there, o'er lustrous rhime,
Crawled like a snail and left his slime?
What sweet town by the desert sea

Is half so bright and fair to see,

With foaming quays and squadrons dark,

Of battle ships and trading bark?

Truth laid the line-Art brought the tinting,

Light streamed o'er all and men cried “ Linton!"

EDDERLINE'S DREAM.

Canto First.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

CASTLE-OBAN is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light

That lingered on the stormy even,

A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,
Hath sunk into the weltering grave.
Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
And downwards to the fearful din,
Where Ocean with his thunder shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,
Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent

A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,

From the edge of the howling battlement !

Therein is a lonesome room,

Undisturbed as some old tomb
That, built within a forest glen,
Far from feet of living men,

And sheltered by its black pine trees
From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
Flings back its arched gateway tall,
At times to some great funeral!