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the long run, lead to the same re done by inclining some spars against sults, to similar good or similar evil. a wall, or bank of a ditch, and cover“ In very populous places,” says Mr ing them with straw. Under these F. T. Kennedy," and in the Border sheds, which the rain penetrated, the counties, a practice has arisen not patients lay on a little straw.” very dissimilar to the practice of Eng One observation we must be perland, namely, that a legal and com- mitted to make in parting with this pulsory relief has been established; subject. The improvement of Irebut, in the county of Ayr there can land must originate in exertions of the not be said to be a compulsory relief proprietors and occupiers of its own for the poor; at the same time it soil. Much has been said about the should be considered, that on many transfer of English capital into that occasions the proprietors of land part of the united kingdom, to be laid come forward in a very liberal man out either in establishing manufacner with a voluntary contribution, in tures, or in improving the cultivation order to avoid what would be the of land. It is difficult to believe, that consequence, if refused, that mea this resource will, under any circumsures would be taken to compel them stances, prove available to any great to give extensive relief to the poor.” extent; few instances occur in his

Whatever difference of opinion tory, in which capital has been thus may prevail with regard to the po- transferred from one country for licy of establishing a system for the the improvement of another. Every employment of the vagrant and able- country must derive its wealth from bodied poor, there can be none as to its own resources and industry, and the necessity of providing for the from these alone; as private wealth sick and the impotent. The evils to consists merely in the savings efwhich, in seasons of distress and sick- fected by an individual, so public ness, the wretched poor of Ireland wealth is the aggregate of such saare exposed, from the absence of all vings. Ireland, like every other counmeans of relieving them, are too try, must become the architect of its dreadful to be longer endured. In own fortune: Its improvement can times of distress and sickness, it is arise only from the industry of its found indispensable to station con own population, and its wealth only stables on the highways, to drive from their savings. If means be away the unfortunate beggars, and adopted to call this industry into prevent them from entering the full operation, a foundation will be towns. We are informed by Dr laid for a superstructure of national Cheyne, in his Report on the State wealth and prosperity. The national of the Province of Ulster in 1809, resources of Ireland are ample and that “when any individual of a fa- inexhaustible; and to produce both mily was affected with fever, the wealth and happiness, it is only nerich were sometimes so much im- cessary that means should be adoptpressed with the danger of conta- ed to give a proper direction to the gion, that they had him removed to industry of its population—to repress a barn or an outhouse, (where they idleness and mendicity-and in every had prepared a bed, and broken a case to render labour a condition to hole in the wall to admit of their be fulfilled, before subsistence shall handing in medicines and drink,) be administered to an able-bodied and locked the door, which was not workman. If the landlords of Ireunlocked till sometime after the dis- land neglect, as they have hitherto ease was over. But when a stranger, neglected, the execution of this duty, or a labourer, who had no cabin of the population of that Island never his own, took the disease, it was can emerge from its poverty and miquite customary to prepare a shed sery. for him by the way side: This was

“ We posted on till the morning sun, And still the tale was never done Faster and faster the old man went, Faster and faster I ran, intent That tale of mystery out to hear, Till the ocean's roll-call met my earFor the forest was past, and the shore was won, And still the tale was never done.

“ He took to a boat, but said no word, I follow'd him in of my own accord, And spread the canvass to the wind, For I had no power to stay behind : We sail'd away, and we sail'd away, I cannot tell how many a day,But the winsome moon did wax and wane, And the stars dropp'd blood on the azure main, And still my soul with burning zeal Lived on the magic of that tale, Till we came to this enchanted river, When the old grey man was gone for ever. He faded like vapour before the sun, And in a moment the tale was done.

And here am I left,

Of all bereft,
Except this zone of heavenly weft,
With the flowers of Paradise inwove,
The soft and silken bands of love.
Art thou the angel of this glade,
A peri, or a mortal maid ??

MAIDEN. “ It is all enchantment! Once on a time I dwelt in a distant eastern clime, O many a thousand miles away, Where our day is night, and our night is day, Where beauty of woman is no bliss, And the Tigris flows a stream like this. I was a poor and fatherless child, And my dwelling was in the woodland wild, Where the elves waylaid me out and in; And my mother knew them by their din, And charm'd them away from our little cot, For her eyes could see them, but mine could not.

“ One summer night, which I never can rue, I dream'd a dream that turn'd out true. I thought I stray'd on enchanted ground, Where all was beauty round and round; The copse and the flowers were full in bloom, And the breeze was loaden with rich perfume. There I saw two golden butterflies, That shone like the sun in a thousand dyes; And the eyes on their wings that glow'd amain, Were like the eyes on the peacock's train.

I did my best

To steal on their rest,
As they hung on the cowslip's damask breast;

But my aim they knew,

And shyer they grew,
And away from flower to flower they flew.
I ran, I bounded as on wings,
For my heart was set on the lovely things,

There she reclined, enchanted so,
She moved not finger, eye, nor toe, :
For fear one motion might dispel
The great enchanter's thrilling spell:
“'Tis all enchantment !

Such a grace
Ne'er ray'd a human virgin's face!
'Tis all enchantment, rock and river,-
May the illusion last for ever!”
Exclaim'd the youth—“O, maiden dear,
Are such enchantments frequent here?”

“Yes, very !” said this mould of love, But hand or eye she did not move,

But whispering said,

As if afraid
Her breath would melt the comely shade,
“ Yes, very! This enchanted stream
Has visions raised in maiden's dream,
Of lovers' joys, and bowers of bliss,
But never aught so sweet as this.
O pass not like fleeting cloud away,
Last, dear illusion !-last for aye !
And tell me, if on earth there dwell
Men suiting woman's love so well.”

YOUTH.

“I came from the isle of the evening sun,
Where the solans roost, and the wild deers run,
Where the giant oaks have a gnarled form,
And the hills are coped with the cloud and the storm,
Where the hoar frost gleams on the valleys and brakes,
And a ceiling of crystal roofs the lakes;
And there are warriors in that land,
With helm on head and sword in hand,
And tens of thousands roving free,
All robed and fair as him you see.
I took the field to lead my own
Forward to glory and renown;
I learn’d to give the warrior word,
I learn’d to sway the warrior's sword,
Till a strange enchantment on me fell,
How I came here I cannot tell.

“ There came to the field an old grey man,
With a silver beard and a visage wan,
And out of the lists he beckon'd me,
And began with a tale of mystery,
Which soon, despite of all control,
Took captive my surrender'd soul.

With a powerful sway,

It roll’d away,
Till evening dropp'd her curtain grey,

And the bittern's cry

Was heard on high,
And the lamps of glory begemm’d the sky;
Yet still the amazing tale proceeded,
And still I follow'd, and still I heeded,-

For darkness or light,
The day or the night,
The last or the first,

Or hunger or thirst,
To me no motive could impart,
It was only the tale that charm’d my heart,

ran, intent

« We posted on till the morning sun, And still the tale was never doneFaster and faster the old man went, Faster and faster I That tale of mystery out to hear, Till the ocean's roll-call met my earFor the forest was past, and the shore was won, And still the tale was never done.

“ He took to a boat, but said no word, I follow'd him in of my own accord, And spread the canvass to the wind, For I had no power to stay behind : We sail'd away, and we sail'd away, I cannot tell how many a day,– But the winsome moon did wax and wane, And the stars dropp'd blood on the azure main, And still my soul with burning zeal Lived on the magic of that tale, Till we came to this enchanted river, When the old grey man was gone for ever. He faded like vapour before the sun, And in a moment th tale was done.

And here am I left,

Of all bereft,
Except this zone of heavenly weft,
With the flowers of Paradise inwove,
The soft and silken bands of love.
Art thou the angel of this glade,
A peri, or a mortal maid ?»

MAIDEN. " It is all enchantment! Once on a time I dwelt in a distant eastern clime,O many a thousand miles away, Where our day is night, and our night is day, Where beauty of woman is no bliss, And the Tigris flows a stream like this. I was a poor and fatherless child, And my dwelling was in the woodland wild, Where the elves waylaid me out and in; And my mother knew them by their din, And charm'd them away from our little cot, For her eyes could see them, but mine could not.

“ One summer night, which I never can rue, I dream'd a dream that turn'd out true. I thought I stray'd on enchanted ground, Where all was beauty round and round; The copse and the flowers were full in bloom, And the breeze was loaden with rich perfume. There I saw two golden butterflies, That shone like the sun in a thousand dyes; And the eyes on their wings that glow'd amain, Were like the eyes on the peacock's train.

I did my best

To steal on their rest,
As they hung on the cowslip's damask breast;

But my aim they knew,

And shyer they grew,
And away from flower to flower they flew.
I ran, I bounded as on wings,
For my heart was set on the lovely things,

But I will love thee and cherish thee so,
As a maiden was never loved here below;

With a heavenly aim,

And a holy flame,
And an endearment that wants a name;
I will lead thee where the breeze is lightest,
And where the fountain wells the brightest,
Where the nightingale laments the oftest,
And where the buds of flowers are softest.

There in the glade,

My lovely maid
I will fold within this rainbow plaid ;
I will press her to my faithful breast,
And watch her calm and peaceful rest,
And o'er each aspiration dear,
I will breathe a prayer to Mercy's ear,
And no embrace or kiss shall be,
That a saint in heaven will blush to see.”

Then the Maiden sunk on his manly breast,
As the tabernacle of her rest;
And as there, with closed eyes she lay,
She almost sigh'd her soul away,
As she gave her hand to the stranger guest,
The comely youth of the stormy west.-
Thus ends my yearly offering bland,
The Laureate's Lay of the Fairy Land.*

We have to remind such of our readers as are well acquainted with the poetry of the Ettrick Shepherd, that to feel the full power of his genius, we must go with him

* Beyond this visible diurnal sphere,' and walk through the shadowy world of the imagination. It is here, where Burns was weakest, that he is most strong. The airy beings, that to the impassioned soul of Burns seemed cold-bloodless and unattractive-rise up in irresistible loveliness in their own silent domains, before the dreamy fancy of the gentle-hearted Shepherd. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land-till, as he lay musing in his lonely sheiling, the world of fantasy scemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake. Whenever he treats of fairy-land, his language insensibly becomes, as it were, soft, wild, and aeria)— we could almost think that we heard the voice of one of the fairy-folk. Still and serene images seem to rise up with the wild music of the versification-and the poet deludes us, for the time, into an unquestioning and satisfied belief in the existence of those green realıns of bliss' of which he himself seems to be a native minstrel.

“ In this department of pure poetry, the Ettrick Shepherd bas, among his own countrymen at least, no competitor. He is the poet laureate of the Court of Faëryand we have only to hope he will at least sing an annual song as the tenure by which he holds his deserved honours." —Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iv. pp. 528, 9.

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