[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, HEARNE'S Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high Northern Latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following Poem.]

BEFORE I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars were mingled with my dreams;
In rustling conflict through the skies,

I heard, I saw the flashes drive,
And yet they are upon my eyes,
I am alive;

And yet
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live,

For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! ye might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!

Too soon I yielded to despair;

Why did ye listen to my prayer?

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;
And oh how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My Friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
My Friends, when ye were gone away.

My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran,
A most strange working did I see;
As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

My little joy! my little pride!

In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.

O wind, that o'er my head art flying
The way my Friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my Friends, ye went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
-My fire is dead, and snowy
white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

IN distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy Man, a Man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide :
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, « My Friend,
What ails you! wherefore weep you so?»
-<< Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock.

<< When I was young, a single Man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, a Ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

«Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single Ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the mountain did they feed,
They throve, and we at home did thrive.
-This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

« Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man ;

My sheep upon the mountain fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

"Do this: how can we give to you,"
They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
« I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me-it never did me good.

A woeful time it was for me,

To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.

<< Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped-
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
Till thirty were not left alive

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say, that many a time

I wished they all were gone—
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.

<< To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind ;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And crazily and wearily

I went my work about,

Bent oftentimes to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

<< Sir! 't was a precious flock to me,

As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store

I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought

I loved my children less;

And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one :

And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;-

To-day I fetched it from the rock;

It is the last of all my flock.»>

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,

Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold,

Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset

us, said I,

<< Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;

But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,—we'll die

Before he shall go with an inch of the land!»>

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;

We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours;
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late;
And often, like one overburthened with sin,
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
I look at the fields-But I cannot go in!

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,
Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, «What ails you, that must come creeping to me!»>

you

With our pastures about us, we could not be sad!
Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all,-and our birth-right was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son,

Who must now be a wanderer!-but peace to that strain! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The Sabbath's return-and its leisure's soft chain!

And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep,
How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood,
Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep
That besprinkled the field—'t was like youth in my blood!

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail;
And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh,
That follow's the thought-We' ve no land in the vale,
Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead! Oh find me, prosperous or undone! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same That I may rest; and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold :
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the Young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest screain,
Heard by his Mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Years to a Mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, «Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed :» and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
They mount, how short a voyage brings
The Wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a Desert thrown
Inheritest the Lion's Den;
Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

I look for Ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me 't is falsely said

That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of Him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass :

I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief :
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
BY A FEMALE FRIEND.

THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,

Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,

The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
"T is but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain :
Then, little Darling! sleep again!

And wake when it is day.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime :
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient Spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from those lofty thoughts I woke,
<< What treasure,» said I, « do you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
Protected from the cold damp air?»>

She answered, soon as she the question heard,

« A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.

« I had a Son,—the waves might roar,
He feared them not, a Sailor gay!
But he will cross the deep no more :

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

«The Bird and Cage they both were his :
'T was my Sou's Bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

This Singing-bird had gone with him;
When last he sailed, he left the Bird behind;
From bodings as might be that hung upon his mind.

« He to a Fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;—there
I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it.>

THE CHILDLESS FATHER.

« UP, Timothy, up with your Staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.»
-Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
«The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.»>
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER.

ONCE in a lonely Hamlet I sojourned

In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourned,
In friendship, she to me would often tell.

This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once, having seen her take with fond embrace
This Infant to herself, I framed a lay,
Endeavouring, in native
my
tongue,
Such things as she unto the Child might say:
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed,

to trace

My song the workings of her heart expressed.

«Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy Mother!
An Infant's face and looks are thine;
And sure a Mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear Mother 's far away,
At labour in the harvest-field:

Thy little Sister is at play;—

What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.

<< Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a Babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me-I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest

For thee, sweet Baby!-thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou;-alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

« Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;
An Infant Thou, a Mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou-spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,

My Baby and its dwelling-place;

The Nurse said to me, ' Tears should not

Be shed upon an Infant's face,

It was unlucky'—no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!

« My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him—and then
I should behold his face again!

<< "T is gone-like dreams that we forget;
There was a smile or two-yet-yet
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast Thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms,

By those bewildering glances crost
In which the light of his is lost.

<< Oh! how I love thee!-we still stay
Together here this one half day.
My Sister's Child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her Mother crossed the sea;
The Babe and Mother near me dwell:
My Darling, she is not to me

What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any Child more dear!

<< -I cannot help it-ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears-and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine

eyes are on me-they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that soft, warm face, My heart again is in its place! «While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove;

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers, (thus
My story may begin) O balmy time,
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!

To such inheritance of blessed fancy

(Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years
Whose progress had a little overstepped

His stripling prime. A town of small repute,
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit
With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,
Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,
From which her graces and her honours sprung :
And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,
With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
Of such alliance.-From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several homes,
Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife
And petty quarrels, had grown fond again;
Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
And strangers to content if long apart,
Or more divided than a sportive pair

Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering
Within the eddy of a common blast,

Or hidden only by the concave depth
Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.

Thus, not without concurrence of an age
Unknown to memory, was an earnest given,
By ready nature, for a life of love,
For endless constancy, and placid truth;
But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support
Of their maturer years, his present mind
Was under fascination;-he beheld
A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world

With half the wonders that were wrought for him.
Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;
Life turned the meanest of her implements,
Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;
Her chamber window did surpass in glory
The portals of the dawn; all paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him: pathways, walks,