and wrote, and fished, and shot grouse on the moors. Let us, before visiting his haunts, take a specimen or two of his poetry, that we may have a clear idea of the man we have in view.

In all Hogg's poetry there is none which has been more popular than the Legend of Kilmeny, in the Queen's Wake. It is the tradition of a beautiful cottage maiden, who disappears for a time and returns again home, but, as it were, glorified and not of the earth. She has, for her purity, been transported to the land of spirits, and bathed in the river of immortal life.

"They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,

And she walked in the light of a sunless day:
The sky was a dome of crystal bright,

The fountain of vision and fountain of light:
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
That her youth and beauty never might fade;
And they smiled on Heaven when they saw her lie
In the stream of life that wandered by.
And she heard a song, she heard it sung,
She kenned not where, but so sweetly it rung,

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn;
O! blest be the day that Kilmeny was born.
Now shall the land of the spirits see,
Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
The sun that shines on the world sae bright,
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light;
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,
Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun,
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair,
And the angels shall miss them traveling the air.
But lang, lang after baith night and day,

When the sun and the world have elyed away;
When the sinner has gaed to his waesome doom,
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!"

But Kilmeny longs once more to revisit the earth and her kindred at home, and.

"Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek of the cot hung over the plain,
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;
When the ingle glowed with an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloaming Kilmeny came hame!
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and den;
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree,
Yet ye are hailsome and fair to see.
Where gat ye that joup o' the lily scheen?
That bonny snood o' the birk sae green?
And these roses,
the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'
"Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
As the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;

Kilmeny had been where the cock ne'er crew,

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew!"

But on earth the spell of heaven was upon her. All loved, both man and beast, the pure and spiritual Kilmeny ; but earth could not detain her.

"When a month and a day had come and gone,

Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene;

There laid her down on the leaves so green,

And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.
But O the words that fell from her mouth
Were words of wonder, and words of truth!
But all the land were in fear and dread,
For they kennedna whether she was living or dead.
It was not her hame, and she couldna remain ;
She left this world of sorrow and pain;

And returned to the land of thought again."

The Legend of Kilmeny is as beautiful as any thing in that department of poetry. It contains a fine moral; that purity of heart makes an earthly creature a welcome den

izen of heaven; and the tone and imagery are all fraught with a tenderness and grace that are as unearthly as the subject of the legend.

There is a short poem introduced into the Brownie of Bodsbeck, worthy of the noblest bard that ever wrote.

DWELLER IN HEAVEN.

"Dweller in heaven high, Ruler below!

Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know!
How can a mortal deem, how it may bé,

That being can ne'er be but present with thee?
Is it true that thou sawest me ere I saw the morn?
Is it true that thou knewest me befere I was born?
That nature must live in the light of thine eye?
This knowledge for me is too great and too high!

That, fly I to noonday or fly I to night,

To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light,
The light and the darkness to thee are the same,
And still in thy presence of wonder I am!
Should I with the dove to the desert repair,
Or dwell with the eagle in cleugh of the air;
In the desert afar-on the mountain's wild brink-
From the eye of Omnipotence still must I shrink!
"Or mount I, on wings of the morning, away,
To caves of the ocean, unseen by the day,
And hide in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there to be living and moving in thee!
Nay, scale I the clouds, in the heaven to dwell,
Or make I my bed in the shadows of hell,
Can science expound, or humanity frame,
That still thou art present, and all are the same?
"Yes, present forever! Almighty! Alone!
Great Spirit of Nature! unbounded! unknown!
What mind can embody thy presence divine?
I know not my own being, how can I thine?
Then humbly and low in the dust let me bend,
And adore what on earth I can ne'er comprehend:
The mountains may melt, and the elements flee,
Yet a universe still be rejoicing in thee!"

The last that we will select is one which was written for an anniversary celebration of our great dramatist; yet is

distinguished by a felicity of thought and imagery that seem to have sprung spontaneously in the soul of the shepherd poet, as he mused on the airy brow of some Ettrick mountain.

TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE.

"Spirit all-limitless,

Where is thy dwelling-place?

Spirit of him whose high name we revere !

Come on thy seraph wings,

Come from thy wanderings,

And smile on thy votaries who sigh for thee here!
"Come, O thou spark divine!

Rise from thy hallowed shrine!

Here in the windings of Forth thou shalt see
Hearts true to nature's call,

Spirits congenial,

Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee!

"Here with rapt heart and tongue,

While our fond minds were young,

Oft thy bold numbers we poured in our mirth;
Now in our hall for aye

This shall be holyday,

Bard of all nature! to honor thy birth.

"Whether thou tremblest o'er

Green grave of Elsinore,

Stayest o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover,

Bosworth, or Shrewsbury,

Egypt, or Philippi;

Come from thy roamings the universe over.
"Whether thou journeyest far,

On by the morning star,

Dreamest on the shadowy brows of the moon,
Or lingerest in Fairyland,

Mid lovely elves to stand,

Singing thy carols unearthly and boon:

"Here thou art called upon,

Come, thou, to Caledon !

Come to the land of the ardent and free!

The land of the lone recess,

Mountain and wilderness,

This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!

"O, never, since time had birth,

Rose from the pregnant earth

Gems, such as late have in Scotia sprung;—

Gems that in future day,

When ages pass away,

Like thee shall be honored, like thee shall be sung!

"Then here, by the sounding sea,

Forest, and greenwood tree,

Here to solicit thee, cease shall we never.
Yes, thou effulgence bright,

Here must thy flame relight,

Or vanish from nature forever and ever!"

To reach Et

Such strains as these serve to remind us that we go to visit the native scenes of no common man. trick, I took the mail from Dumfries to Moffat, where I breakfasted, after a fresh ride through the woods of Annandale. With my knapsack on my back, I then ascended the vale of Moffat. It was a fine morning, and the green pastoral hills rising around, the white flocks scattered over them, the waters glittering along the valley, and women spreading out their linen to dry on the meadow grass, made the walk as fresh as the morning itself. I passed through a long wood, which stretched along the sunny side of the steep valley. The waters ran sounding on deep below; the sun filled all the sloping wood with its yellow light. There was a wonderful resemblance to the mountain woodlands of Germany. I felt as though I was once more in a Suabian or an Austrian forest. There was no wall or hedge by the way: all was open. The wild raspberry stood in abundance, and the wild strawberries as abundantly clothed the ground under the hazel bushes. I came to a cottage and inquired,-it was Craigieburn Wood, where Burns met "The lassie wi' the lintwhite locks."

But the pleasure of the walk ceased with the sixth milestone. Here it was necessary to quit Moffat and cross over into Ettrick dale. And here the huge hills of Bodsbeck, more villainous than the Brownie in his most vindictive