Long shall we seek his likeness—long in vain,

And turn to all of him which may remain,

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,

50 And broke the die——in moulding SHERIDAN!

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In the cold sunshine ofyon narrow dell,
Afi'ection lingers; there two lovers dwell,
Greenland’s whole family; nor long forlorn,
There comes a visitant; a babe is born.

5 O’er his meek helplessness the parents smiled;

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’/ Then seemed they, in that world of solitude,

The Eve and Adam of a race renewed.
Brief happiness! too perilous'to last;

10 The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past.

Behold the end !—one morn athwart the wall,
They marked the shadow of a reindeer fall,
Bounding in tameless freedom o’er the snow;
The father tracked him, and with fatal bow

15 Smote down the victim; but, before his eyes,




A rabid she-bear pounced upon the prize;

A shaft into the spoiler’s flank he sent, ,

She turned in wrath, and limb from limb had rent

The hunter; but his dagger’s plunging steel,

With riven bosom, made the monster reel;

Unvanquished, both to closer combat flew,

Assailants each, till each the other slew;

Mingling their blood from mutual wounds, they lay,

Stretched on the carcass of their antlered prey.
Meanwhile his partner waits, her heart at rest,

No burden but her infant on her breast;

With him she slumbers, or with him she plays,

And tells him all her dreams of future days,

Asks him a thousand questions, feigns replies,

And reads whate’er she wishes in his eyes.

--Red evening comes; no husband’s shadow falls,

Where fell the reindeer’s, o’erv the latticed walls;

’Tis night! no footstep sounds towards her door;

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The day returns,-—but he returns no more.

In frenzy forth she sallies, and with cries,

To which no voice except her own replies,

In frightful echoes, starting all around,

Where human voice again shall never sound,
She seeks him, finds him not; some angel guide
In mercy turns her from the corpse aside;
Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near,
Who waits to wail: her to a happier sphere,

But leads her first, at evening to their cot,
Where lies the little one, all day forgot;
Imparadised in sleep, she finds him there,
Kisses his cheek, and breathes a mother’s prayer
Three days she languishes, nor can she shed
One tear between the living and the dead;

When her lost spouse comes o’er the widow’s thought,

The pangs of memory are to madness wrought;

But, when her suckling’s ea er lips are felt,

Her heart would fain—but h! it cannot melt;

At length it breaks, while on her lap he lies,

WVith baby wonder gazing in her eyes.

Poor orphan! mine is not a hand to trace

Thy little story, last of all thy race!

Not long thy sufferings; cold and colder grown,

The arms that clasp thee, chill thy limbs to stone.
—’Tis done:--from Greenland’s coast the? latest sigh
Bore infant innocence beyond the sky.

Exnncrsr: .101.
The City and the Coantry.—M‘DONNOUGH.

The arrival of the two mountaineers was not long in being known to the whole household in May Fair. Little Mary had hoisted the tartan in less time than the ordinary tribe of lady’s maids could easily comprehend, and having hoisted that, she descended the stairs with more rapidity than is customary with even that lightfooted tribe. The shakings by the hand, the “good graciouses! and are you there?” the uninterrupted inquiries, the questions answered by a look, and the questions so rapid as not to admit of that brief response, pas

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sed like the shadow of a cloud upon a Highland glen— like the milling ofthe wind upon a Highland lake. The castle, the loch, the river, the cliflL—every field, every hill, every spot, and almost every bush, had its note of recollection, and its tribute of praise.

There is something exquisite in this—something which the inhabitants of thronged cities, cannot appreciate. But in the patriarchal land of the north, there is or there was, ere avarice laid it waste, or the love of money made it a desolation—a love of every thing that was, as well as of every thing that is. The same ancient stone which sheltered the sire, shelters the son; against the tree which his father planted, no man will lift up an axe; and the resting-place of the departed is sacred as long as life warms a heart, which was present when they were laid in the dust. In a great city, man, dependent on his own exertions, following the bent of his own passions or appetites, and reckless of every gratification but those of himself, is disjointed from man. The tenants of the same roof, know not the names of each other, and to be parted by one paltry brick, makes a separation as complete, as though they dwelt at the antipodes. Not only is man disjointed from man, but age is disjointed from age. The people who inhabit a street or a square, now know nothing and care nothing about those who inhabited it immediately before; and their brief memorial will be as quickly blotted out by the persons whom chance may afterwards place in the same situation. Thus, while the great city brings the bodies of men together, it scatters their minds, breaks all the ties and links of sym athetic society, and piles up its tens and hundreds of housands, (to all intents and purposes of deep feeling and delightful intercourse,) like the cold, hard, unadhering and unconnected particles of a mountain of sand, which the wind of whim, or chance, or commerce, may whisk about just as the sand particles by the Red Sea are whisked about on the wings of the deadly saniel. In the retirement of the country, and especially in that country from which our humble visiters have come, and to which our lovely heroine is looking, it is not so. There man is united to man, and

e is linked with age, in the closest ties of friendship, the most delightful bonds of sympathy, the most touching reminiscences of sorrow, and the fondest anticipations

55 of hope. If a man Would eat, drink, die, and be 'forgotten, let his dwelling place be in the city: 'if he would live, love, and be remembered, let him speed him to the glans of the mountains. '

Summary Punishment—WALTER SCOTT.

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of MacGregor commanded that the hostage eXchanged for her husband’s safety should be brought into her presence. I believe her sons had kept this

‘ 5 unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for fear of the consequences; but if it was so, their humane precaution onlypostponed his fate. They dragged forward at her summons a wretch already half dead with terror, in whose agonized features I recognised, to my horror and as

10 tonisliment, my old acquaintance Morris.

He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an effort to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been pollution, so that all he could do in token of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss

15 the hem of her plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent; and, with cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in

20 agony, eyes that seemed to be taking their last look of

allmortal objects, he prayed but for life—for lie he

would give all he had in the world;—-it was but life he

.asked—life, if it were to be prolonged under tortures and

, privations:—he asked only breath, though it should be

25 drawn in the depths of the lowest caverns of their hills.

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt, with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence.

30 She gave a brief command in Gaelic to her attendants, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the brink of a clifi' which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadfial cries,

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that fear ever uttered—I may well term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards.

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held "fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again, eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half-naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death—shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark blue waters of the lake, and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an in— stant, to guard, lest, extricatiug himself from the load to which he was attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; the waters which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, was forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence.

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Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, the jessamine,

vI pricked them into paper with a pin,—

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)-~
Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—

But, no—what here we call our life is such,

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain

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