Poor children of the untrodden wild!-'twas nature taught you sơ,
The wanderer and the exil'd one ye never found a foe.

Alas! alas! the fault was yours, 'twas his alone the crime
Which like the mouldering ruin grows dark mid the roll of time:
Yes; 'tis the mighty spirit speaks. Fast comes the avenging hour
When Justice shall full-quiver'd walk the palaces of power-
The tyrant and the despot then before her mailed brow
Shall quail with fear, and idly, too, bewail as thou dost now!

Wake, spirit, wake! nor longer rest; 'tis thine to avenge the just;
The blood of slaughter'd innocence invokes thee from the dust!

Gaze from this rugged steep-alas! 'tis solitude alone
That marks the dwellings of my tribe and claims them as its own.
Where are the patriarchs of our race-
-the quiver'd and the bold,
Who used to stem the battle tide as onward still it roll'd ;
And mid the shouts of victory, from the carnage-cover'd field,
Upbore the dying warrior upon his bloody shield ?--

Go ask the foam emerging swift from the river's rushing sweep,
Or the bubble on the boiling wave-fast sinking in the deep;—
These be the emblems of our race-the Stranger came-they pass'd
Swift from their forest-halls, as flees the storm-cloud in the blast.

Look at the bright and mirror'd lake-how beautiful-how still
It sleeps beneath the deepening shade of yonder evening hill!
Nought ruffles now with curling swell the azure of its breast,
But like a slumbering babe it lies, enfolded in its rest!

The bounding wild deer in its chase of freedom, in amaze
Stands on the margin of the flood upon its form to gaze,

And wonders whence the stillness comes, which lingers round and round

Unbroken now by human lips-or war-shell's hollow sound.

Away she flies-the startled deer-what made her speed so fast?
It was the sere leaf from the tree-that rustled as it past!

Alas! how chang'd!-beat loud my heart—and haughty as at first, Beat-till the purple springs of life in agony shall burst!

"Tis o'er, the clay-cold damps of death are on the warrior's brow,
And the burning pulse no longer beats in exultation now :-
Prone by his fathers' dust he lies-the last of all his race;
And soon the gently dropping leaves will form his hiding-place!

London, Dec. 7th, 1831.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

1. Reasons for the Hope that is in us. By Robert Ainslie, W. S. Constable-Edinburgh.

WE have always been favourable to the religious and moral culture of youth. It is perhaps no exaggeration to affirm that the period of youth is the most important era of human existence. It is then that the mind is most ductile and susceptible-that good or bad impressions are easiest made-that the character is easiest formed--and that a good or bad education is sure to have the best or the worst influence. Youth has been compared to the bending willow, which is ready to yield on the slightest impulse, or the melted wax, on which any impression may be made by the slightest touch of the seal. If that important period is abandoned to neglect-if youthful irregularities are not checked-if the mind is not directed in the pursuit of virtue-if right principles are not instilled into the heart-and if the young are not taught to venerate the principles of religion and rtue, it is easy to predict the consequences that are likely to follow. But if our youth are early instructed in the knowledge of religion-if they are taught to respect truth, and in every situation of life to conduct themselves with propriety and honour-their character is certain of commanding respect; and in that honourable period to which so few attain, they will be pointed out as examples to others.

In order to promote this we know not a better help than Mr. Ainslie's little volume, which we have just perused with unmingled pleasure. The young may be considered as men in miniature, and are as capable of being reasoned with, provided the subject be reduced to their capacity, as men whose minds are accustomed to the habit of ratiocination; and it is surely of the last importance in the outset of their religious career, to be able to give a reason of the hope that is in them-without which their religion is only a religion of implicit faith, grounded on no data whatever. Most earnestly, therefore, would we recommend to parents and guardians of the young to put into their hands the work already named. It is full of pious sentiment-breathes the purest and most affectionate spirit, and is, in our opinion, calculated, by God's blessing, to do infinite good.

But while we recommend it to the young, we are far from affirming that it may not be read with advantage by the aged: on the other hand, men at any period of life may peruse it with benefit. Let the young read it, and he will acquire virtuous principles-let the Christian read it, and it will confirm him in the love of what is excellent-let the philosopher read it, and it will increase his stock of knowledge-and let the man who reads for the sole purpose of amusement read it, and his trouble will be amply rewarded. Had it not been owing to our limits, we intended to have given a lengthened analysis of the work before us, besides several specimens of what we consider its most beautiful and eloquent passages-but on

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these, for the present, we cannot enter. We may notice generally, however, that Mr. Ainslie's work consists of five essays-the first is occupied with the Evidences in favour of Natural Religion—the second with the Evidences in favour of Revealed Religion-the third is on the Immortality of the Soul-the fourth contains the supposed Reflections of an enlightened heathen living at the time of Christ, and accompanying him in his mission-and the last on the Advantages which have resulted to mankind from the Introduction of Christianity. The fourth Essay, we are told, has been considered the most original, but we confess we are more pleased with the one on the Immortality of the Soul. The rest of the book consists of Select Scripture Readings from the Old and New Testament-with Classification of Texts on Doctrinal and Moral subjects. In the accomplishment of his plan Mr. Ainslie has been singularly felicitous. He gives evidence of a mind accustomed to think, and versed in habits of close investigation. His style is simple, beautiful and perspicuous; and throughout his book there are many passages remarkable for force and sublimity. The aim of the author is modest and unambitious, but here and there, when touching on the grand foundations of the Christian hope, he rises into glowing fervidity. What a source of comfort it must be to the venerable author of the "Hope that is in us," now descending into the vale of years, to think that by his exertions he is now sowing far and wide the seeds of virtue and piety into the youthful heart, and that long after he is laid into the narrow house his memory will be blessed by thousands of unborn posterity.

2. Tales of my Landlord. Fourth and last Series. 4 vols. Containing Count Robert of Paris, and Castle Dangerous.-CadellEdinburgh. Whittaker-London.

WHO does not hail with hearty welcome "the wizard of the north?" Lives there a man in all braid" Scotland, throughout the entire length and breadth of merry England, or within the circumference of rocks that begirds the Emerald isle, who has never heard of, read, and been delighted with the productions of the Author of Waverly? Lives the man, in short, in a habitable latitude of the earth to whom such ignorance can be imputed? He must either belong to the Hottentots or the untameable savages of the wilderness, or, if shone upon by the light of knowledge and civilization, the period is undoubtedly long ago past, when he should have been trans ported beyond seas as a spendthrift of his time and a despiser of intellectual enjoyment. We have taken up these volumes with a pleasure never before equalled on previous occasions of a like nature, and yet not unmixed with feelings of melancholy and sorrow. That wonderful being, who for many years has continued to excite the admiration of the world by the instrumentality of an unparalleled number of publications-the produce of one mind, which is apparently inexhaustible and all, with very few exceptions, of equal merit,-he, the mighty magician, oppressed by the burdens of age, is now seeking in a foreign and milder clime relief from pain, where perhaps he will find a stranger's grave. In all human probability, these Tales of my Landlord are not only the last of the series, but the finale of the

whole. But on a point so mournful we shall allow our author to speak for himself:

"The gentle reader is acquainted, that these are, in all probability, the last tales which it will be the lot of the Author to submit to the public. He is now on the eve of visiting foreign parts; a ship of war is commissioned by its Royal Master to carry the Author of Waverly to climates in which he may possibly obtain such a restoration of health as may serve him to spin his thread to an end in his own country. Had he continued to prosecute his usual literary labours, it seems indeed probable, that at the term of years he has already attained, the bowl, to use the pathetic language of Scripture, would have been broken at the fountain; and little can one, who has enjoyed on the whole an uncommon share of the most inestimable of worldly blessings, be entitled to complain, that life, advancing to its period, should be attended with its usual proportions of shadows and storms. They have affected him at least in no more painful manner than is inseparable from the discharge of this part of the debt of humanity. Of those, whose relation to him in the ranks of life might have insured him their sympathy under indisposition, many are now no more; and those, who may yet follow in his wake, are entitled to expect, in bearing inevitable evils, an example of firmness and patience, more especially on the part of one who has enjoyed no small good fortune during the course of his pilgrimage.

"The public have claims on his gratitude, for which the Author of Waverly has no adequate means of expression; but he may be permitted to hope, that the powers of his mind, such as they are, may not have a different date from those of his body; and that he may again meet his patronizing friends, if not exactly in his old fashion of literature, at least in some branch which may not call forth the remark, that

"Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage. Abbotsford, September, 1831.”

To introduce the work on our table to the reading public, it were enough to say, that it exists; but as considerable time may elapse ere it can be extensively circulated through the usual mediums, we give the following-by no means the best specimen-in which an Ourang-outang is an actor. It may be called an

EXTRAORDINARY COMBAT.

"In a short time the warder's patience was exhausted, and despairing of the sylvan's voluntary return, he resolved to descend in quest of him. Down the ladder he came, a bundle of keys in one hand, the other assisting his descent, and a sort of dark lantern, whose bottom was so fashioned that he could wear it upon his head like a hat. He had scarce stept on the floor, when he was surrounded by the nervous arms of the Count of Paris. At first the warder's idea was, that he was seized by the recusant Sylvan.

'How now, villain!' he said; let me go, or thou shalt die the death.'

Thou diest thyself,' said the Count, who, between the surprise and his own skill in wrestling, felt fully his advantage in the struggle.

Treason! treason!' cried the warder, hearing by the voice that a stranger had mingled in the contest; help, ho! above there! help, Hereward-Varangian !—Anglo-Saxon, or whatever accursed name thou callest thyself!'

While he spoke thus, the irresistible grasp of Count Robert seized his throat, and choked his utterance. They fell heavily, the jailer undermost, upon the floor of the dungeon, and Robert of Paris, the necessity of whose case excused the action, plunged his dagger in the throat of the unfortunate. Just as he did so, a noise of armour was heard, and, rattling down the ladder, our acquaintance Hereward stood on the floor of the dungeon. The light, which had rolled from the head of the warder, continued to show him streaming with blood, and in the death-grasp of a stranger. Hereward hesitated not to fly to his assistance, and, seizing upon the Count of Paris at the same advantage which that knight had gained over his own adversary a moment before, held him forcibly down with his face to the earth.

Count Robert was one of the strongest men of that military age; but then so was the Varangian; and save that the latter had obtained a decided advantage by having his antagonist beneath him, it could not certainly have been conjectured which way the combat was to go. Yield! as your own jargon goes, rescue or no rescue,' said the Varangian, or die on the point of my dagger!'

'A French Count never yields,' answered Robert, who began, to conjecture with what sort of person he was engaged, ' above all, to a vagabond slave like thee! With this he made an effort to rise, so sudden, so strong, so powerful, that he had almost freed himself from the Varangian's grasp, had not Hereward, by a violent exertion of his great strength, preserved the advantage he had gained, and raised his poniard to end the strife for ever; but a loud chuckling laugh of an unearthly sound was at this instant heard. The Varangian's extended arm was seized with vigour, while a rough arm, embracing his throat, turned him over on his back, and gave the French Count an opportunity of springing up.

'Death to thee, wretch!' said the Varangian, scarce knowing whom he threatened; but the man of the woods apparently had an awful recollection of the prowess of human beings. He fled, therefore, swiftly up the ladder, and left Hereward and his deliverer to fight it out with what success chance might determine between them.` The circumstances seemed to argue a desperate combat; both were tall, strong, and courageous, both had defensive armour, and the fatal and desperate poniard was their only offensive weapons. They paused facing each other, and examined eagerly into their respective means of defence before hazarding a blow, which, if it missed, its attaint would certainly be fatally requited. During this deadly pause, a gleam shone from the trap-door above, as the wild and alarmed visage of the man of the woods was seen peering down by the light of a newly kindled torch which he held as low into the dungeon as he well could.