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unto their tombs and other things. Here, leaning upon mine arm, on one of their tombs, I uttered these lines, which though perchance they may procure laughter in the wiser sort, (which I shall be glad of)-they yet moved my young and tender-hearted companions at that time with some compassion. And these they were.

I were unkind, unless that I did shed,
Before I part, some tears upon our dead ;
And when my eyes be dry, I will not cease,
In heart to pray their bones may rest in peace;
Their better parts (good souls) I know were given
With an intent they should return to heaven.
Their lives they spent, to the last drop of blood,
Seeking God's glory, and their country's good;
And, as a valiant soldier rather dies,

Than yields his courage to his enemies,

And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death
Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath,
Só have they spent themselves, and here they lie

A famous mark of our discovery.

We that survive, perchance may end our days

In some employment meriting no praise,

And in a dunghill rot; when no man names
The memory of us but to our shames.

They have out-lived this fear, and their brave ends

Will ever be an honour to their friends.

Why drop you so, mine eyes? nay, rather pour
My sad departure in a solemn shower!

The winter's cold, that lately froze our blood,
Now were it so extreme, might do this good,

As make these tears, bright pearls, which I would lay
Tomb'd safely with you, till doom's fatal day;

That in this solitary place, where none

Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,
Some remnant might be extant, of the true
And faithful love I ever tendered you.

Oh, rest in peace, dear friends! and let it be
No pride to say, the sometime part of me,
What pain and anguish doth afflict the head,
The heart and stomach when the limbs are dead.

So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die
A foster-father to your memory.

FAREWELL."

ROBERT BURNS.

"In the bosom of the unfortunate Burns, that splendid but eccentric meteor! the love of country burned, with a force equal to that of a Cicero or a Chatham. 'The appellation of a Scotch bard,' says he, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, is by far my highest pride; to continue to deserve it, my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I should wish

to sing. I have no dearer wish, than to have it in my power, unplagued by routine of business (for which Heaven knows I am unfit enough), to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia, to sit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes.' This was denied; Oh! my Lælius, if you have pleasure in shedding tears over the tombs of the good, the brave, or the exalted intellect, spare a few to the memory of this ill-treated and unfortunate victim to strong, indignant, and energetic feelings; to the memory of the genius, resembling the wild and magnificent landscape of his native land; a man, as much superior to the common herd of reptiles, that robbed him of his flashes of merriment in a petty country town, as he was to those more dignified associates, who drew him from his native wilds by their applauses, chained him to their tables in an expensive city, and, having satisfied their love of notoriety, 'cast him, like a loathsome weed, away.' Oh! Scotland, Scotland! the fate of Burns sits heavy on thy conscience!"

Philosophy of Nature.

THADDEUS RUDDY'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS

MISTRESS.

THE following description of Bridget Brady, by her lover Thaddeus Ruddy, a bard who lived about the middle of the seventeenth century, is perhaps unique as a specimen of local simile.

"She's as straight as a pine on the mountain of Kilmannon,

She's as fair as the lilies on the banks of the Shannon; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms of Drumcallan, And her breasts gently swell like the waves of Lough Allan ;

Her eyes are as mild as the dews of Dunsany,

Her veins are as pure as the blue-bells of Slaney;
Her words are as smooth as the pebbles of Terwinny,
And her hair flows adown like the streamlets of Finny."

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

THE extensive continent of North America combines most of the various features of the gradations of climate, with numberless objects of admiration to the naturalist, peculiar to itself; among these may be classed the Dismal Swamp, a morass of an extent unequalled in any part of the world. It reaches from Albe

marle Sound, in North Carolina, to the neighbourhood of Portsmouth, on the opposite side of the harbour to Norfolk. It is supposed to contain about 250 square miles. or about 150,000

acres.

Lake Drummond is situated near the centre of the Swamp, and is formed by the drainings of this immense bog. It is crowded with fish of various kinds; which, living unmolested, attain to a prodigious size. Its surface is generally calm, being sheltered by lofty trees which grow on its borders.

The solitude and dangers of the place have given rsie to romantic stories, which may have been strengthened by the vapours which frequently exhale from marshy ground, and known by the name of Will-o'-the-Wisp, or Ignis Fatuus. An anecdote of this kind is currently related by the inhabitants of this dreary tract, which gave rise to "The Lake of the Dismal Swamp," written by Mr. Moore.

The story on which it is founded is simply as follows. A very strong attachment was formed by two young people in the neighbourhood of the swamp, when the death of the lady interrupted their prospect of mutual happiness:

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