THE YAMELESS STREAM.

I FOUND a Nameless Stream among the hills,
And traced its course through many a changeful scene;
Now gliding free through grassy uplands green,
And stately forests, fed by limpid rills;

Now dashing through dark grottos, where distils
The poison dew; then issuing all serene

'Mong flowery meads where snow-white lilies screen.
The wild swan's white breast. At length it fills

Its deepening channels; flowing calmly on

To join the ocean on his billowy beach.

-But that bright bourne its current ne'er shall reach:

It meets the thirsty desert,-and is gone

To waste oblivion! let its story teach

The fate of one-who sinks, like it, unknown.

ROBERT POLLOK.

1799-1827.

THE author of "The Course of Time" adds one more to the list of minds too early quenched by the very ardor of their pursuit of greatness. He was born at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, in Renfrewshire. Destined for the dissenting Presbyterian ministry of Scotland, he passed with reputation through his curriculum of study. But the severity of his application induced consumption, which cut off the young poet at the age of twenty-seven; he died in the south of England, to which he had been removed for the recovery of his health, shortly after his license to the ministry and the publication of his great poem. As the production of a youth, "The Course of Time" must rank among the most wonderful efforts of genius. The following letter to his brother, announcing its completion, will be read with interest:

"MUIRHOUSE, July 7, 1826.

"DEAR BROTHER,-It is with much pleasure that I am now able to tell you that I have finished my poem. Since I wrote to you last, I have written about three thousand five hundred verses; which is considerably more than a hundred every successive day. This, you will see, was extraordinary expedition, to be continued so long; and I neither can, nor wish to ascribe it to any thing but an extraordinary manifestation of Divine goodness. Although some nights I was on the borders of fever, I rose every morning equally fresh, without one twitch of headache; and with all the impatience of a lover, hasted to my study. Towards the end of the tenth book-for the whole consists of ten bookswhere the subject was overwhelmingly great, and where I, indeed.

seemed to write from immediate inspiration, I felt the body beginning to give way. But now that I have finished, though thin with the great heat, and the almost unintermitted mental exercise, I am by no means languishing and feeble. Since the 1st of June, which was the day I began to write last, we have had a Grecian atmosphere; and I find the serenity of the heavens of incalculable benefit for mental pursuit. And I am now convinced that summer is the best season for great mental exertion; because the heat promotes the circulation of the blood; the stagnation of which is the great cause of misery to cogitative men. The serenity of mind which I have possessed is astonishing. Exalted on my native mountains, and writing often on the top of the very highest of them, I proceeded, from day to day, as if I had been in a world in which there was neither sin, nor sickness, nor poverty. In the four books last written, I have succeeded, in almost every instance, up to my wishes; and, in many places, I have exceeded anything that I had conceived. This is not boasting, remember. I only say that I have exceeded the degree of excellence which I had formerly thought of."

"Pollok was tall, well-proportioned, of a dark complexion, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed with a meteor brilliancy whenever he spoke with enthu siasm and energy."

I FE Į V V ĮTAIĮ ON.

IN the woodlands Love is singing,
Health salutes the rosy day,

Hill and dale with joy are ringing,
Rise, my love, and come away!
Winter, with his snowy head,
To his icy den has fled;

Frost severe, and tempest high,

With the shivering monarch fly;

Bound in chains, with him they dwell,

Far away in horrid cell.

And gay Spring, in gown of green,

Frisking o'er the lawn is seen—

Frisking o'er the lawn and mountain,

Bathing in the silver fountain,

Singing in the arbor'd shade,

And weeping tears of joy on every blade.

With her forth the Graces sally,

Painting flowers with nature's skill;

Lilies dwelling in the valley,

Daisies shining on the hill;

And the primrose of the glen,
Far retired from haunt of men;
And the violet meek and mild,
Stooping modest o'er the wild ;

And a thousand flowers that grow,

Where hermit-streams to reed of shepherd flow. Mirth on tiptoe ever dancing,

Leaps before the leaf-clad queen;

Joy, with eye seraphic glancing,
Tripping close behind is seen.
And the goddess kind to thee,
Lyda! comes in sportive glee.
Health, the maid forever young,
Trips the gamesome group among;
Health, that loves to see the Day
Yoke his steeds on eastern way;
Health, with cheek of rosy hue,
Bathed in Morning's holy dew.
Sighing Zephyr, too, attends,
Where her flowery footpath wends;
And from every fanning wing,
Dipt in Life's immortal spring-
Spring that flows before the throne

Of the always-ancient One

Sheds balmy life in viewless shower,

Like oil of gladness seen on herb and flower.