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Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:

He grew sleek and fat;

In addition to that,

A thick crop of feathers came, thick as a mat;
His tail waggled more

Than ever before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopped now about

With a gait quite devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore,

Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw

Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they
66 never had known such a pious Jack-
daw!"

He long lived the pride

Of that country-side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow;
So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow!

SONG.

Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being,
Whose mortal form reposes with the dead,
Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing,
Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!

Thomas Pringle.

Pringle (1788-1834) was a native of Roxburghshire, Scotland. He was the author of "Scenes of Teviotdale, Ephemerides, and other Poems," all showing fine feeling and a cultivated taste. In 1820 he emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope with his father and several brothers; but from lameness, caused by an accident when young, Thomas was ill fitted for a life of hardship. He returned to England, and got a living by his pen. He edited a literary annual, entitled "Friendship's Offering," and wrote a series of "African Sketches," containing an interesting personal narrative. His poem, "Afar in the Desert," was much admired by Coleridge. It was repeatedly altered. Pringle's "Poetical Works," with a memoir by Leitch Ritchie, appeared in 1839.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead;
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to my heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young, and the world was
new;

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;-
All-all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone!
And I, a lone exile, remembered of none;

My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun,-

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may
scan,

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness; I fly to the desert, afar from man!

I hear her voice in still small accents tell
Of realms of bliss and never-fading brightness,
Where those who loved on earth together dwell.

Ah, yet awhile, blessed shade, thy flight delaying,
The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer;
To her rapt gaze, in visions bland, displaying
The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!

Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted,
She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay;
Then, as on earth, in tenderest love united,
Together seek the realms of endless day!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife-
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear;
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,-
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh:
Oh, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!

There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand-
The only law of the desert land.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side;
Away, away from the dwellings of men,

By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays,

And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread-void of living sight or sound.

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,

"A still small voice" comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, Saying, "Man is distant, but GOD is near!"
And the kùdù and eland unhunted recline

By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will

In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side;
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,

Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side;
Away, away in the wilderness vast,

Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coránna or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.
Our native land-our native vale-
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Cheviot's mountains blue.

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song!
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow-
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The battle-mound, the Border tower,
That Scotia's annals tell;

The martyr's grave, the lover's bower-
To each, to all-farewell!

Home of our hearts! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Or view thy cliffs again!

But may dishonor blight our fame,

And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green island of our sires!

Our native land--our native vale-
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

William Thom.

Among the uneducated poets Thom (1789-1848) deserves an honorable mention. He was a native of Aberdeen, Scotland, and learned to read and write before he was ten years old. His life thenceforth was one of labor and vicissitude. His occupation was first that of a weaver; he married, and took up that of a peddler. In this he incurred penury and suffering, so that he often had to find his lodgings in cold barns; and on one of these occasions a child of his own perished from starvation and exposure. In 1840 he removed to Inverury, and while there began to write poetry, which attracted public attention. He was enabled to go to London, and in 1844 published Rhymes and Recollections of a Handloom Weaver." The volume was well received; and, on a second visit to London, he was entertained at a public dinner. Returning to Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; and, after a period of poverty and distress, died there at the age of fifty-nine. Some of his poems are remarkable for tenderness and grace, combined with strong religious convictions.

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THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'?
Tis the puir doited loonie, the mitherless bairn!

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn.

Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rocked bed, Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh, speak him na harshly: he trembles the while; He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile: In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn

That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED.

The morning breaks bonny o'er mountain an' stream,
An' troubles the hallowéd breath o' my dream;
The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e,
But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me!
The dull common world then sinks from my sight,
An' fairer creations arise to the night;
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e,
Then bright are the visions awakened to me!

Oh, come, spirit-mother! discourse of the hours
My young bosom beat all its beating to yours,
When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell
On ears-how unheedful proved sorrow might tell!
That deathless affection nae trial could break;
When a' else forsook me, ye wouldna forsake:
Then come, O my mother! come often to me,
An' soon an' forever I'll come unto thee!

An' then, shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean,
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen!
'Twas kind-for the lowe that your e'e kindled there
Will burn, ay, an' burn till that breast beat nae mair.
Our bairnies sleep round me; oh, bless ye their sleep!
Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wanken an' weep!
But, blithe in his weepin', he'll tell me how you,
His heaven-hamed mammie, was dautin' his brow.

Tho' dark be our dwallin', our happin' tho' bare,
An' night closes round us in caulduess an' care,
Affection will warm us-an' bright are the beams
That halo our hame in yon dear land o' dreams:
Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign,
Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then;
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me,
But oh for the night wi' its ghost revelrie!

James Abraham Hillhouse.

AMERICAN.

Hillhouse (1789-1841) was a native of New Haven, and a graduate of Yale, of the class of 1808. He passed three years in Boston, preparing for a mercantile career. The war checked his enterprises, and he betook himself to dramatic composition. After the peace he engaged in commerce in New York. He visited England in 1819; and Zachary Macaulay, father of Lord Macaulay, spoke of him as "the most accomplished young man with whom he was acquainted." Withdrawing from business, he married, and removed to a country-seat near New Haven, where the remainder of his life was passed in elegant leisure. There he produced the drama of

"Hadad," published in 1825. It is written with considerable power, and shows great refinement of taste and purity of diction. In it the machinery of the supernatural is introduced.

INTERVIEW OF HADAD AND TAMAR.
FROM "HADAD.”

The garden of ABSALOM's house on Mount Zion, near the palace overlooking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain.

Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers
And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha;
Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets.

Blessed hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair,
So softly glowing, so contemplative,
Hath set, and sanctified to look on man.
And lo! the smoke of evening sacrifice
Ascends from out the tabernacle.-Heaven
Accept the expiation, and forgive
This day's offences!-Ha! the wonted strain,
Precursor of his coming!-Whence can this?
It seems to flow from some unearthly hand-
Enter HADAD.

Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view in this clear fount

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The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee,
And gave thee salutations; but I fear
Judah would call me infidel to Moses.

Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains precede

Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think
Some gentle being who delights in us

Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming;
But they are dirge-like.
Had.
Youthful fantasy
Attuned to sadness makes them seem so, lady;
So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever
As signs of rest and peace;-the watchman's call,
The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump,
Announcing the returning moon, the pipe
Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell,
Send melancholy to a drooping soul.

Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams That steal upon the fancy at their call!

Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest!
Meek labor wipes his brow, and intermits
The curse to clasp the younglings of his cot;
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks, and
hark!

What merry strains they send from Olivet!
The jar of life is still; the city speaks
In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes
Waked in the streets and gardens; loving pairs
Eye the red west in one another's arms;
And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields
A glimpse of happiness which He who formed
Earth and the stars hath power to make eternal.

William Knox.

Knox (1789-1825) was a young Scottish poet of considerable talent, who died in Edinburgh, and was the author of "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Zion," "The Harp of Zion," etc. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions him in his diary: "His father was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry." The piece we quote was a favorite with Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States. He often referred to it. There are sev eral versions of the poem. We have given the most authentic.

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

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