MORNING LANDSCAPE.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings: Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.

THE HERMIT.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral:
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:

Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguished her crescent displays:
But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew!
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew :
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn-
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
'O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried,
"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."

RETIREMENT.

WHEN in the crimson cloud of even

The lingering light decays,

And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;

Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme:

"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled

High o'er the glimmering dale⚫

Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:

Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn

Gleams on the western deep:

"To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,

'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequestered bower
Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivied shrine.

"How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win?

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing?

"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind

With dreams of former days,

When in the lap of Peace reclined

He framed his infant lays;

When Fancy roved at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarmed,

Nor Envy, with malignant glare,

His simple youth had harmed.

"But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallowed bowers explore,

O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly woe,

And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains his heart below.

"For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread;

No more I climb those toilsome heights,

By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;

For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain."

James Macpherson.

Born 1738

Died 1796.

THE translator or imitator of Ossian, was born at Kingussie, in Invernessshire, and was intended for the Church. After leaving college, he was tutor in the family of Mr Graham of Balgowan. In 1760 he published "Fragments of Ancient Highland Poetry," which were so well received, that a subscription was made to enable him to collect additional pieces. As the result of his journey, he published in 1762 "Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, by Ossian the Son of Fingal, a Gaelic Chief of the Third Century." In 1763 he published "Temora," another epic poem. The sale of these was extraordinary. Many doubted their antiquity, and Dr Johnson openly treated them as impostures. The current of opinion now seems to be in favour of the idea that Macpherson found a good many traditionary stories and some manuscripts, and wove out of them, in a connected form, what he gave out as the translation from Ossian. Macpherson himself was impenetrable to the attacks made on him; and as he kept his own counsel there is little likelihood that any more light will be obtained as to the true authorship. In any case, they speak highly for the talent of a man, who could write that which the brightest intellects of the age pronounced the highest poetry. Ossian has been translated into many languages; and it is said that a bad Italian translation formed Napoleon's favourite reading. Macpherson obtained some good appointments, and was elected member of Parliament for Camelford. He also amassed considerable wealth, which he employed in purchasing the property of Raitts, in his native parish. He died on 17th February 1796.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.

I FEEL the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon I feel it warm around.

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks