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if we would, the savage hero whose virtues the Muse of Campbell has dashed off in one happy line :

A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear.

It is the composition of Anne Home, wife of the celebrated John Hunter, and sister to Sir Everard Home, Bart.

THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star!-to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear;
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there,—
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry night-
Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring, bland

As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand

In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain;
Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love—

But sweeter to be lov'd again.

A poetic mind of no common order perished when John Leyden, the author of this pretty ode, died in the East. A slow and consuming illness seized upon him, and his laborious mind and conscientious heart would not allow his body proper repose. His happiest moments were when he recalled the hills and streams of his native Tiviotdale to his fancy. Sir John Malcolm, a countryman and a man of genius, sat down by his bed-side, and read him a letter from Scotland describing the enthusiasm of the volunteers of Liddisdale-summoned from their sleep by sound of drum and beacon-light-marching against an imaginary enemy, to the warlike border air of "Wha dare meddle wi' me" - Leyden's face kindled; he started up, and, with strange melody and wild gesticulation, sang aloud

Wha dare meddle wi' me?

Wha dare meddle wi' me?

TAM GLEN.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie; Some counsel unto me come len'; anger them a' is a pity;

Το

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow,
In poortith I might make a fen';
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen?

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, Gude-day to you, brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie

says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten:
But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;
His likeness came up the house staukin---
The very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

How much the old song of "Tam Glen" lent to the conception of the new it is now in vain to inquire; for the ancient strain has fairly passed away, and the name only remains behind. Burns submitted his song to his brother Gilbert as the work of the eldern Muse, and heard its naïveté warmly praised before he acknowledged it for his own offspring. It seems ordained indeed that the lady should become Mrs. Glen-fate and affection formed an alliance far too strong for the blandishments of Lowrie the laird, or the counsel of aunts, or the admonition of mothers. The first four lines of the concluding verse are emblazoned with the superstition and the simplicity of old Scotland.

CHLORIS.

My Chloris, mark how

green the groves,

The primrose banks how fair:

The balmy gales awake the flowers,

And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,

And o'er the cottage sings:

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In lordly lighted ha':

The shepherd stops his simple reed,

Blithe, in the birken shaw.

The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milk-white thorn?

The shepherd, in the flowery glen,
In shepherd's phrase will woo:

The courtier tells a finer tale,

But is his heart as true?

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
That spotless breast o' thine!

The courtiers' gems may witness love-
But 'tisna love like mine.

VOL. IV.

M

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