All peak above peak, like a tempested flood

Highland-hills to the north stretching boldly away; And the lakes and the isles, and the river and sea,

And deep glens of the mountains black, craggy and stern; And the stream brawling on 'neath the scathed oaken tree, And the heath's crimson bells, 'mid the furze and the fern: I have seen the Sun on Loch Catrine smile,

And anon, a storm on Ben An to be;

And have felt my heart dance in the lone defile

All feathered and fringed with the birken tree.
I've walked on a rocky shore by night,

'Mid ruined piles in the dim twilight;
And heard tolled slowly thro' the cell,
To the dash of the waves, the midnight bell.
The breaking of the storm away
From off the peaks, whereon it hung,
And then the fairy scene that lay
Beneath, as never poet sung;
And waterfall, and castled height,
And river's marge and meadow fair,
The varying of the shade and light

O'er sides of mountains clothed or bare.
And the sylvan nook so lone and still,
Where the only sound is the rippling rill;
And the only visiter seems to be

The bird that sings there morn and night,
Like the soul of the place rejoicingly,
Singing its own delight;-

All these I've seen, yet they moved not me
Like the scenes I had loved in my infancy,
When, after absence, here I came,

And found every favourite spot the same:
The very trees, in their leafiness,

Seemed just as they were years ago;

And the flowers of each peculiar place

Were growing, just as they used to grow;

And the scents, and sounds, and scenes, which there
Seemed only to be, were there as then,

And I fondly fancied the very air

Brought the soul of my childhood back again.
Then I thought of the beautiful scenes that smiled
On the varied path of my wandering;

Of the mountain's height and the glen so wild,
Of the lonely lake, and the sylvan spring;

But I felt that the loveliest scenes I knew

Were those where the flowers of my childhood grew;
Where, after wand'rings, grief and pain,
The joys of my youth could delight again.

MARY HOWITT.

An agreeable pendant to an agreeable poem cannot be unacceptable to our readers:-for this reason we add the following original piece by Mr. Richard Ryan.

FRIENDSHIP.

Oh! 'tis sweet to meet again

Forms that Fate hath hid full long;
"Tis sweet in grief to hear some strain
Resembling childhood's early song:
Those forms, those tones, at once renew
The smiles that graced each happy hour,
And steal as sweet as summer dew,
Reviving ev'ry sleeping flower.

Oh! 'tis sweet when fairies creep
Round the couch on which we lie,
And with midnight's peaceful sleep
Mingle dreams of days gone by.

First vows, first loves, come o'er us then,

With cheeks in smiles whose home's the tomb,

And hours too bright to shine again,

Life's shadowy pathway to illume.

Oh! 'tis sweet to meet upon

Cheeks we prized in Love's young day,
Friendship's smile slow stealing on,
As Love's begins to fade away.

Love's noontide sun may boast more light,
While it shines 'tis lovelier far;

But suns, tho' bright, will sink in night;
Then how holy's Friendship's star!

SEPTEMBER.

SEPTEMBER, like the preceding month, derived its name from the place which it occupied in the Romulean calendar; it was the 7th. Its tutelar deity was Vulcan. The principal feasts were the Dionysia, or the Vintage, and the grand games called Circenses, which continued five days. The sign Libra is appropriated to it, because, according to Virgil, it is the month when

Day and night in equal balance hang.

Remarkable Days

In SEPTEMBER 1826.

1.-SAINT GILES.

GILES was born at Athens, but removed to France, and there died towards the end of the eighth century. *1. 1715.-LOUIS XIV DIED..

During the reign of this king, the privileges of the Protestants in France were gradually infringed; and missionaries were sent for their conversion, supported by regiments of dragoons, who exercised the most horrid cruelties upon the defenceless Protestants in the south of France, particularly at Montauban and Nantes. This bigoted sovereign declared, in his letters of instruction to his offieers, That it was his Majesty's will that the extreme of rigour should be employed against those who refused to become of his religion.' In 1685, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, first granted by Henry IV, and confirmed by Louis XIII, deprived the Protestants of all exercise of their religion, and tore from them their children to be educated Catholics. Vast numbers of Protestants, in consequence, left the kingdom, and carried their arts and industry to foreign and hostile nations.

2.-LONDON BURNT.

The fire of London broke out on Sunday morning, September 2d, 1666, O.S.; and being impelled by strong winds, raged with irresistible fury nearly four days and nights: nor was it entirely mastered till the fifth morning after it began.

We have already given two very curious accounts of the fire of London by eye-witnesses of this dreadful calamity (T. T. for 1816, p. 249, and T. T. for 1820, p. 213); but the following description by Mr. PEPYS is so very interesting, that we shall make no apology for presenting it entire to our readers. In his Diary, September 2, 1666, he says,

'Some of our maids sitting up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane called us up about three in the morning to tell us of a great fire they saw in the city. So I rose and slipped on my night-gown, and went to her window, and thought to be on the back side of Marke-lane at the farthest, but being unused to such fires as followed, I thought it far enough off, and so went to bed again and to sleep. About seven rose again to dress myself,

T

and there looked out at the window, and saw the fire not so much as it was, and further off. So to my closet to set things to rights, after yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane comes and tells me that she hears that above 300 houses have been burned down tonight by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down all Fishstreet, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower, and there got up upon one of the high places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going up with me; and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side the end of the bridge; which, among other people, did trouble me for poor little Michell and our Sarah on the bridge. So down with my heart full of trouble to the Lieutenant of the Tower, who tells me that it begun this morning in the King's baker's house in Pudding-lane, and that it hath burned down St. Magnes Church, and most part of Fish-street already. So I down to the water-side, and there got a boat, and through bridge, and there saw a lamentable fire. Poor Michell's house as far as the Old Swan already burned that way, and the fire running further, that in a very little time it got as far as the Steele-yard, while I was there. Every body endeavouring to remove their goods, and flinging into the river, or bringing them into lighters that lay off; poor people staying in their houses as long as till the very fire touched them, and then running into boats, or clambering from one pair of stairs by the water-side to another. And among other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconys, till they burned their wings, and fell down. Having staid, and in an hour's time seen the fire rage every way, and nobody to my sight endeavouring to quench it, but to remove their goods and leave all to the fire, and having seen it get as far as the Steele-yard, and the wind mighty high, and driving it into the city; and every thing after so long a drought proving combustible, even the very stones of churches, and, among other things, the poor steeple by which pretty Mrs. lives, and whereof my schoolfellow Elborough is parson, taken fire in the very top, and there burned till it fell down: I to White-Hall (with a gentleman with me, who desired to go off from the Tower, to see the fire in my boat); and there up to the King's closet in the Chapel, where people come about me, and I did give them an account dismayedthem all, and word was carried into the King. So I was called for, and did tell the King and Duke of York what I saw, and that unless his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down, nothing could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor from him, and commanded him to spare no houses, but to pull down before the fire every way. The Duke of York bid me tell him, that if he would have any more soldiers he shall; and so did my Lord Arlington afterwards, as a great secret. Here meeting with Captain

Cocke, I in his coach, which he lent me, and Creed with me to Paul's, and there walked along Watling-street as well as I could, every creature coming away loaden with goods to save, and here and there sick people carried away in beds. Extraordinary good goods carried in carts and on backs. At last met my Lord Mayor in Canning-street, like a man spent, with a handkercher about his neck. To the King's message, he cried, like a fainting woman, "Lord! what can I do? I am spent: people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses; but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it." That he needed no more soldiers, and that, for himself, he must go and refresh himself, having been up all night. So he left me, and I him, and walked home; seeing people all almost distracted, and no manner of means used to quench the fire. The houses too so very thick thereabouts, and full of matter for burning, as pitch and tar, in Thames-street; and warehouses of oyle, and wines, and brandy, and other things. Here I saw Mr. Isaac Houblon, the handsome man, prettily dressed and dirty at his door at Dowgate, receiving some of his brother's things, whose houses were on fire; and, as he says, have been removed twice already; and he doubts (as it soon proved) that they must be in a little time removed from his house also, which was a sad consideration. And to see the Churches all filling with goods by people, who themselves should have been quietly there at this time. By this time it was about twelve o'clock; and so home, and there find my guests, who were Mr. Wood and his wife, Barbary Sheldon, and also Mr. Moone: she mighty fine, and her husband, for aught I see, a likely man. But Mr. Moone's design and mine, which was to look over my closet, and please him with the sight thereof, which he hath long desired, was wholly disappointed; for we were in great trouble and disturbance at this fire, not knowing what to think of it. However, we had an extraordinary good dinner, and as merry as at this time we could be. While at dinner, Mrs. Bateller come to enquire after Mr. Woolfe and Stanes (who it seems are related to them), whose houses in Fish-street are all burned, and they in a sad condition. She would not stay in the fright. Soon as dined, I and Moone away, and walked through the city, the streets full of nothing but people, and horses and carts loaden with goods, ready to run over one another, and removing goods from one burned house to another. They now removing out of Canning-street (which received goods in the morning) into Lumbard-street, and further: and among others, I now saw my little goldsmith Stokes receiving some friend's goods, whose house itself was burned the day after. We parted at Paul's; he home, and I to Paul's Wharf, where I had appointed a boat to attend me, and took in Mr. Carcasse and his brother, whom I met in the street, and carried them below and above bridge too. And again to see the fire, which was now got further, both below and above, and no likelihood of stopping it. Met with the King and