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A third time warlike cheers are raised
Beneath the noon's unclouded sun:
Upon the patriot band it blazed,
Saw thrice their laurels won,
And hung o'er Roslin's vale amazed,
As erst o'er Ajalon !

Blue Esk, with murmuring stream,
Romantic, journies by

Between its rocky banks, which seem
To woo the summer sky,

With beechen groves, and oaken boughs,
And bloomy wild shrubs, fresh and fair;
While oft the pendent willow throws
Its locks of silver hair
Athwart the waters, which disclose
Its image pictured there.

Three triumphs in a day!

Three hosts subdued by one!
Three armies scatter'd like the spray
Beneath one summer sun.-
Who, pausing 'mid this solitude,
Of rocky streams, and leafy trees,-
Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,
Would ever dream of these?

Or have a thought that aught intrude,
Save birds, and humming bees?

Roslin, thy castle grey

Survives the wrecks of Time;
And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye,
With pinnacles sublime:-

But, when thy battlements shall sink,
And, like a vision, leave the scene,
Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink,
On sculptured base shall lean
The patriot of the land, to think

Of glories that have been!


A Sonnet.

'Twas when mid forests dark the night winds raged, Tossing their branches with an awful voice;

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When clouds lower'd heavy, and the dull drear noise
Of torrents wild, and fierce, and unassuaged,
Fell on the listening ear, that forth I stray'd
Most thoughtful, and in solitary guise,

(For deep truths flash on contemplation's eyes,)
To where the churchyard gloom'd in rayless shade:-
Impressive was the loneliness-in sooth,

My thoughts through pathless labyrinths did run ;-
I sate, in darkness, on the grave
of one

Whom I had dearly loved in early youth,

And there I mused, till from the turf mine eye
Did shape him out-even like reality!

Till from the turf he rose before mine eye,
Girdled with clouds-even like reality!




Stanzas, supposed to be repeated by an Exile.
ONCE more, oh! turn, and touch the lyre,
And wake that wild impassion'd strain ;
I feel the delirating fire

Flash from my heart through every vein !—
Yes! every swell, and every word,
Strikes on a sympathetic chord,

And conjures up, with viewless wand,
My early days, my native land!

'Tis sweet, unutterably sweet,

Upon a far and foreign strand,
The play-mate of our youth to meet,
Fondly to press once more his hand;
His face to see, his voice to hear-
Though always loved, now doubly dear,
And talk, with heart-felt ecstasy,
Upon the hours of years gone by!
Beloved country! when I lose
Remembrance of thy carrols wild,
Or hold companionship with those
By whom thy glory is reviled;
Then be my despicable lot
Unloved-renownless-and forgot-
To live, to die, to pass away

And mix with earth's neglected clay!

Oh! many a time, with many a tear
These native accents, breathing joy,
When Winter's hearth was blazing clear,
I sate, and listed, when a boy;
And not amid the circle round,

Cold heart, or tearless eye was found :-
Ah! neʼer from inspiration fell

Tones hymn'd so sweet, or loved so well!

And can they be less welcome now,
Afar from all that blessed me, when
The heart was glad, unconscious how ?-
No! dear they are to me as then:
More soft beyond wild Ocean's roar :
More sweet upon a foreign shore:

And more melodious far when sung
Amid the tones of foreign tongue!


Written after the Invasion of Russia by the French.

THE day-star was retiring in the south

Behind a ridge of clouds, as twilight fell
Upon the banks of Moskwa. Silence reign'd
Throughout the desolate city; save, by fits,
As rose the crackling flames, or sunk the roofs,
The ponderous roofs of buildings undermined;
Or when the stayless element found its way
To nether domes encaved, the magazines
Of nitrous grain explosive, corn, and wine;
Or when the prison'd watch-dog madly howl'd,
As near and nearer raged the swelling flame,
Gnawing its chain in savage agony,
Amid the torments of a lingering death.


Laden with darkness, now, the wings of night
Descending brooded; not a star above
The near horizon's dusky verge appear'd;
Wrapt in a shroud of blackness palpable,
Earth had its fires sufficient. Bright with flame,
Long streets consuming spread their glowing lines,
Tinting the mantled heavens with white intense;
Next, dull and lurid crimson; darkness last.-
Gazing upon the spectacle, there stood

Thousands, and tens of thousands. Female shrieks
And ruffian imprecations mingled there :
Between the luminous ruins and the eye,
The dusky groupes that clothed the narrow lanes,
Distinct, though distant, hurrying to and fro,
Struck on Imagination's wilder'd eye,
Like habitants of subterranean realms.

The startled steed glanced backward, as the flame
Smote on his eye-ball, ominous. Mothers stood,
Begirt with weeping daughters, at the doors
Of home, that yielded sanctuary no more;
And, with dishevelled tresses, kneeling, pray'd
For clemency,-a disregarded boon!

And blew the winds of heaven, and flames and smoke
Waved to and fro; and roofs and rafters sank,
And sparks were in the air, and blood on earth,
All that debases or degrades mankind,

Yea! blood and cruelty, and guilt and woe,
Rapine and desolation, fear and death!!

Moscow ! resplendent city of the North!
Thou wert too fair a sight for mortal eye,
The diadem of landscapes beautiful!—

What rapturous feelings struck the pilgrim's mind,
When, after traversing ignoble plains,
And tracks of rude and savage wilderness,
Tiptoe upon adjacent heights, he saw
The far extended grandeur of thy march,-
Thy glittering palaces; thy thousand spires;
Thy massy domes, and balls of flaming gold;
Nor lovely less thy winding terraces,
O'erhung with jasmine, flowering in the sun;
Thy obelisks, as Parian marble pure;
And roofs of azure, o'er whose slanting sides
The sculptured steeples stretch'd their taper lengths,
Piercing the dark-blue beauty of the sky,

And holding there a thousand crosses bright;
Like giants towering o'er the sons of men!

Moscow ! resplendent city of the North!
Moscow! thy hearths are tenantless, thy shrines
Ransack'd by rude and sacrilegious hands,
Thy glittering glory vanish'd like a dream !—
Woe to thy sons and daughters! woe to thee !-
Against thee man and element combin'd,
Man, and the element of fire! thy sons,
Thy resolute sons, have laid thee in the dust,
And strew'd thy reeking ashes to the winds !-
They sought in thee a goal for their distress.
They found in thee a sepulchre. Thou wert
An offering on the shrine of Liberty,
A sacrifice for Europe-for the world!
Eternal glory circle thee; thou art
A lesson to the realms of human kind.





In your Magazine for February, 1818, (p. 495,) a correspondent of yours, who subscribes D. I., has contradicted, as utterly destitute of foundation,” an anecdote related in Hardy's Memoirs of Lord Charlemont, respecting the generosity of David Hume, the historian, to Dr Blacklock, the blind poet, in communicating to him the benefit of an office held by him (Mr Hume) under the University of Edinburgh.

It is true, Lord Charlemont is inaccurate in some of the particulars. The office in question was that of Librarian to the Faculty of Advocates; and Mr Hume neither did, nor could transfer the office itself to Dr Blacklock, but the salary only, which was L.40 a-year. Lord Charlemont had also been misinformed in regard to the rapid, and somewhat romantic way, in which the favour is related as having been conferred by Mr Hume. But the substance of the story-that Mr Hume did receive this salary to the use of Dr Blacklock, and not to his own, I know for certain to be true; for I had often heard it mentioned by Mr Hume's intimate friends, Dr Blair, John Home, and Adam Smith. Though sure of the fact, I did not, however, wish publicly to contradict your corresponddent's statement, in reliance on my own recollection purely, though quite distinct, of what those excellent persons had related to me. But t'other day, in the course of looking into some letters of Mr Hume's, I hit upon evidence of the fact, in Mr Hume's own hand, in a letter to Adam Smith, dated, Edinburgh, 17th December, 1754. Mr Hume, it appears, had a controversy at that time with the curators of the Advocates' Library, respecting certain books which he had bought for the library, and which the curators had ordered to be expunged from the catalogue, and removed from the shelves, as licentious, and unworthy of a place in the library of so grave and so learned a body. It also appears, that Mr Hume had considered himself as not very handsomely treated by the

47, George-Street, 1st October, 1821. ing to the Faculty of Advocates for redress. He found, however, that he was not to expect the support of the Dean of Faculty, and some other leading members of that body. "I saw it then," says he, in this letter to Adam Smith, "impossible to succeed, and accordingly retracted my application: but being equally unwilling to lose the use of the books, and to bear an indignity, I retain the office, but have given Blacklock, our blind poet, a bond of annuity for the salary. I have now put it out of the power of those gentlemen to offer me any indignity, while my mo→ tives for remaining in the office are so apparent. I should be glad that you approve of my conduct. I own that I am satisfied with myself.”

In Mr Hume's account of his own life, he says, "In 1752, the Faculty of Advocates chose me their librarian, an office from which I received little or no emolument, but which gave me the command of a large library." He had wished to conceal, under these general expressions, the liberal way in which he disposed of the emoluments of the office. Allow me to add, that, in 1754, Mr Hume was by no means in affluent circumstances; for he had then recently published the first volume only of his history; and he held no appointment, public or private, but this of librarian to the Faculty of Advocates.

I am persuaded, Sir, that you will have satisfaction in correcting your correspondent's unintentional mis-statement. It does not, indeed, relate to a matter of much importance; but the anecdote serves to illustrate Mr Hume's temper and dispositions; and, in that view, it may be not entirely without interest. Besides, the public attention has already been called to the incident, both in Lord Charlemont's Memoirs, and in your Magazine; and it will, therefore, be as well that the circumstances should be stated correctly. I am, Sir,

Your very obedient

And most faithful servant,

curators on that occasion; and that The Editor of Blackwood's Magazine.

he had entertained a purpose of apply



The King's Birth-Day.


THE King's Birth-Day in Edinburgh was one of unusual festivity. Every school had the play on this momentous day; and long before the 4th of June, the mimic cannon were put in order, ammunition laid in, and store of squibs, crackers, sky-rockets, Roman candles, and fire-wheels, were prepared for the joyous demonstration of boyish loyal ty. For weeks before, the only talk among the boys was of powder and powder-horns; and the chief occupation preparing match-paper, and arranging the details of the bonfire, and the dress of Johnny Wilkes, which personage has had the honour of being hung and burnt in effigy once a-year in Edinburgh, ever since I remember. Boughs of trees and flowers were also provided on the preceding day, in spite of the annual proclamation of the magistrates, and the care of the proprietors of shrubberies in the vicinity; and birch and laurel were in particular demand to busk the wall, at the bottom of which was the delightful fire.

The King's Birth-days to which I allude, it is necessary to mention, were those which were celebrated previous to the city of Edinburgh having, or requiring to have, a regular police. Since the period of that establishment, the officers of which make little or no distinction between merriment and mischief, bonfires are not allowed, and the firing of squibs and cannon is prohibited; joy and gladness are reduced to mere sentiment; and, how ever hopeless the experiment, it is attempted, by these worthy protectors of the public peace, to pit auld heads on young shouthers, in spite of nature, and to make youthful limbs move with the tottering regularity of fourscore. That this has hitherto never fully succeeded, I am not sorry; and when taking a walk in a modern King's Birthday morning, I do regret the paucity of the fires, and their stinted ornaments-and in the evening to meet so many idle apprentices, whom this system has driven from the cheerful fire, and the enlivening noise of cannon,

Vox Populi.

to celebrate the royal birth in the undisturbed retirement of a publichouse, the termination of which celebration often ends in a commitment to the Police-Office-Bridewell-the loss of character-and confirmed depravity.

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Those who were fathers twenty-five years ago, will recollect the joy which beamed in the eyes of the boys relieved from the tasks of the school for the momentous day, and the delighted preparations that were made to celebrate this happy anniversary; the demand for money to replenish the powder-horn; the array of cannon; and the anxious request to be awakened "exactly at one o'clock." When the day was within a few hours, their little eyes sparkled with gladness at the idea of pleasure to come, and it seemed an age till the moment arrived when it was necessary to light the fire, and usher in the day with the mimic thunder of their little artillery."Mamma! will Betty give us a backet of coals?"- Jenny, mind waken me first!"-" Papa, I winna set aff the crackers till you are up ;" and a thousand demands and expressions of a similar nature, made even the old participate in what gave so much pleasure to the young. I myself recollect of making the fruitless request to be allowed to sit up; have gone to bed for three hours to toss and tumble in feverish anxiety, till the dawn of day shewed it was time to light the fire, and decorate my cap with laurels ; and I have known others go to bed at an earlier hour, not to deprive nature of her accustomed rest, with the ineffectual wish to shorten the intervening period in the forgetfulness of sleep. But to the excited imagination, nothing short of enjoyment can bring again the calm of ordinary and every-day life; and the night preceding the King's Birth-day was generally a sleepless one to most of the schoolboys of Edinburgh. Days of my boyhood !—I look back to your enjoyments with complacency, and almost with regret !

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