a large-featured country, and in a style of landscape very different from those little irriguous valleys which we had left.

The downy sides of all these valleys are covered with sheep, which often appear to hang upon immense green walls. So steep is the descent in some parts, that the eye from the bottom scarce distinguishes the slope from a perpendicular. Several of these mountainous slopes (for some of them are very lofty) are finely tinted with mosses of different hues, which give them a very rich surface. This, however, is probably the garb which nature wears only in the summer months. She has a variety of dresses for all seasons, and all so becoming, that when she deposits one, and assumes another, she is always adorned with beauties peculiar to herself.

GILPIN'S "Highlands of Scotland."

THE SPINNER'S SONG.

Turn, busy wheel, turn, busy wheel,
And pile upon the circling reel

A thread as fine and free

As that the insect artist weaves,

In autumn mornings, 'midst the leaves,
Of yon old apple-tree,

The moss-grown apple-tree,
The dewy, filmy apple-tree!

Turn, busy wheel, turn swiftly round,
And blend with my wild song thy sound

Of peaceful industry;

Such sound as loads the summer breeze,

When, gathering their sweet store, the bees
Crowd yon broad linden-tree,

The flowery, shadowy linden-tree!

MARY R. MITFORD.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND,

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,

When the weary fingers feel

Help as if from fairy power;

Dewy night o'ershades the ground,

Turn the swift wheel round and round.

Now beneath the starry sky

Rest the widely-scattered sheep; Ply the pleasant labor, ply,

For the spindle, while they sleep,
With a motion smooth and fine,
Gathers up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance of feeble eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest,
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WURTHA.

Through the autumn mists so red
Shot the slim and golden stocks
Of the ripe corn; Wurtha said,

"Let us cut them for our flocks."

Answered I," When morning leaves
Her bright footprints on the sea,
As I cut and bind the sheaves,

Wurtha, thou shalt glean for me."

"Nay; the full moon shines so bright,
All along the vale below,

I could count our flocks to-night;
Haco, let us rise and go;

For when bright the risen morn

Leaves her footprints on the sea, Thou may'st cut and bind the corn, But I can not glean for thee."

And as I my reed so light

Blowing sat, her fears to calm,
Said she, "Haco, yesternight,

In my dream, I missed a lamb;
And as down the misty vale

Went I pining for the lost,

Something shadowy and pale

And phantom-like my pathway crossed-
Saying, In a chilly bed,

Low and dark, but full of peace,

Better than store of gold,
Silver and gems untold,
Manners refined and cold,

Which to our lords belong!
We, when our toil is past,
Softest delight can taste,
While summer's beauties last,

Dance, feast, and jocund song;
And in our hearts a joy

No envy can destroy.

Translated by LOUISA COSTELLO.

MARTIAL D'AUVERGNE, 1440-150S.

VIII.

The Garland.

AMONG the pieces in the following group will be found

some old verses of Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld. This ancient Scottish poet and Church dignitary was a son of the famous Archibald, earl of Argus, surnamed Bell-theCat, from his share in one of the peculiar conspiracies of that strange period-a conspiracy which resulted in hanging a number of the royal favorites of James III., chiefly architects and musicians, ennobled by that prince. James was in this respect too liberal in his tastes to please the fierce old barons surrounding his throne, though doubtless his favor was often weakly lavished upon those in whose society he took pleasure. But one would hardly have expected to find the leader of such a conspiracy the father of a distinguished poet; such, however, was the fact. Bishop Gawain was a great clerk in his day. He wrote a metrical version of the Æneid in the Scottish dialect, and many lesser poetical works, admitted to pos