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This strikes us to have the genuine "birr."

must quote one or two most admirable staves, for the boar-hunters of the Deccan are not unknown to song.


Awake! up, up, and away to the wood,
Where the grizzly sounder's sleeping;

Where the panther prowls, and the wild-wolf howls,
And the dun-deer watch is keeping!

Yes, awake and away! all your dreamings dismiss,
And away with all snobbish adorning ;
There never was ground of such promise as this:
Then huzza for a hunting morning!

O! who'd the glorious chase forsake,

When the grey bear's track we follow

O'er the mountain top, through the thorny brake,
Or down the steepy hollow?

Then awake and away, &c. &c. &c.

Though the bowl may yield some joy to the heart,
Of rapture, too, partaking;

Yet it never can rival the sounder's start,

Or the crash of the grey boar breaking.

Then awake and away, &c. &c. &c.

Though some still swear no charm can vie
With beauty's glance and tone,

Yet give ME the flash of the boar's brown eye,
And the roar of his dying groan.
Then awake and away, &c. &c. &c.

Parodies are generally poor enough things. They are something like a practice, very common among the smaller fry of wits, of making ludicrous quotations of Scriptural expressions. "A good man," quoth Samuel Johnson," dislikes it for its profanity, and a clever man despises it for its facility." But an imitation is a very superior thing to a parody; and what may be called a parallelism is a finer thing still. There are few songs finer, in their way, than " Hurrah for the bonnets o' blue." The tune, to be sure, is a great help to the words, for it stirs the heart of a Borderer like the notes of a trumpet; and, in a foray to Carlisle gates, there is no saying what might be the effect of so dashing a chorus among a set of wild reavers, devoted to pillage and song.

"Et mihi, mehercle!" as old Lowth exclaims in a paroxysm of minstrel ardour-" plus valuisset unum Agμodia μλos quam omnes Philippicæ orationes!" And we cannot for an instant doubt, that, if the ven

erable professor had known the tune of one of those ballads as well as the words, he would have carried his enthusiasm to a still higher pitch. Nothing can be better than the rapid roll of the music; and as we ourselves wear a blue bonnet, we are not ashamed to confess, that when we hear that μs sung with suitable spirit, very absurd ideas slip into our head of the iniquity of laws against sheep-driving, house-burning, and harrying the English, which we know were the favourite occupations of our forefathers. The "Blue bonnets over the Border" is another dangerous ballad, and ought to be bound over in its own recognisances, as tending to a breach of the peace. Now, what these and similar ditties are on the Border, are some of the songs by our gallant young huntsmen in the Jungles of Hindostan. We should like to see the man whose heart doesn't dance when he listens to such a stave as this:


Here's a bumper to spur and to spear!

A bumper to challenge a song!

A bumper to those, who, where'er the boar goes,
Are spearing and spurring along!

'Tis good to be steady and cool,

'Tis better to dare than to doubt,

'Tis best to keep clear of the snobs in the rear,
And be always thrown in than thrown out!
Then hurrah for the spur and the spear !
Hurrah for the zest of my song!

Hurrah for all those, who, where'er the boar goes,
Are spearing and spurring along!

Here's a cheer for the charms of the chase!

A cheer for a glorious burst!

And who wouldn't cheer, when the bold win the spear;

For the fearless are always the first.

There are some ever in the right place

There are some who just toddle and trot

There are many who love every danger to face
And many, I swear, who do not!

Then hurrah for the spur and the spear!

Hurrah for the zest of my song!

Hurrah for all those, who, where'er the boar goes,

Are spearing and spurring along!

There's a joy when the boar makes his rush

There's a joy when the monster first bleeds—
There's a joy though to-day has now glided away;
For to-morrow shall double our deeds!
Here's a sigh for the sportsman afar,

A welcome to those who are here

A health to the whole, who, in spirit and soul,
Are friends of the spur and the spear!

Then hurrah for the spur and the spear!
Hurrah for a jovial song!

Hurrah for all those, who, where'er the boar goes,
Are spearing and spurring along!

The stormy joy of the chase in the morning, and the convivial enjoyments of music such as this, and iced Lafitte at night, are some slight alleviations to the pangs of absence from merry England, the slowness of promotion, and the hot climate of the gorgeous East. Hunting those tameless savages of the wood is a fine preparation for an active campaign; and we will venture a slight wager that not a few of the foremost of the stormers of Ghuznee were heroes of the spur and the spear.

Be it remembered that the view we have here taken is furnished to us, not by the hands of the Mundys and Bacons, and other gentlemen of liter

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a cord of as binding force as the chains recorded in the Prometheus Vinctus, which he read the last half. year; and, in short, he is a puling white-faced, hobbledehoy; a nondescript, intolerable in the eyes of the whole human family-from very old men down to very young ladies. Before he has been six months in India, he is as much a man as his grandfather holds up his head at parade as if he were a field-marshal has no dread of schoolmasters, or of any living thing, beast or man, or mixture of both and heads a party of gallant spearsmen in their rush upon a whitetusked boar, without its ever entering into his head to enquire whether "his mother knows he's out." As to the feelings of that venerable matron when she finds out that Tommy has more stirring amusements than playing cricket that he has actually looked a royal Bengal tiger in the face, and discharged a bullet with unblenching cheek and unquivering hand right into the monster's forehead, she will hardly believe it can be the same dear Tommy that she remembers one little year before, with no higher ambition inflating his little heart than to have a gun of his own, and to be allowed to kill crows. Oh! mothers of innumer

able Tommies-whose hearts leap up whenever you hear the word India mentioned-lay this soothing unction to your souls, that the mortality is as great in the heart of old England itself as in Hindostan—that more lives are lost in one season galloping after a fox, than in a century by teeth or paw of boar or tiger—and finally, that your darling will return at the end of the first ten years, with an epaulet on each shoulder, a liver sound and whole, and a cargo of shawls and turbans that will make you and his sisters the envy of the whole neighbourhood! We therefore conclude, after the example of the Rev. Dr Poundtext, with this practical exhortation-stir up "the governor," by all the means in your power, to send out to the aforesaid Tommy a new rifle, and an extra supply, to enable him to sport a good horse; for unless these two instruments be of the best quality, we cannot answer for the consequencesrifles are apt to burst, and old horses to fall down-a disagreeable incident, you will allow, within fifty feet of a tiger, or a couple of yards of a boarand what a pity it would be if Tommy's beauty should be injured, all for the want of an additional hundred pounds!



THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes-and all the clear,
Bright joyance of thy song enthralls the ear,
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs
Of vanish'd nations rolls thy music-tide.

No light from history's starlike page illumes
The memory of those nations. They have died.
None cares for them but thou :—And thou mayst sing
Perhaps o'er me, as now thy song does ring

Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.

Thou scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave

The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din,
Where one from other's woe existence weaves,
Where the old sighs, the young turns grey and grieves,
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:

And thou dost flee into the broad green woods,
Where with thy soul of music thou dost win

Their heart to harmony-no jar intrudes
Upon thy sounding melody. Oh, where,
Amid the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes?

Ha! what a burst was that! The Eolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the lone woods-and now it comes again—
A multitudinous melody, like a rain

Of glassy music under echoing trees,
Over a ringing lake. It wraps the soul,
Even as a gem is wrapp'd, when round it roll

Thin waves of brilliant flame-till we become,
With very excess of deep pleasure, dumb,
And pant, like a swift runner clinging to the goal.
I cannot love the man who doth not love

(Even as men love light) the song of birds:
For the first visions that my boy-heart wove
To fill its sleep with, were, that I did rove

Amid the woods, what time the snowy herds
Of morning cloud fled from the rising sun
Into the depths of heaven's heart, as words
That from the poet's lips do fall upon

And vanish in the human heart; and then

I revell'd in those songs, and sorrow'd when,
With noon-heat overwrought, the music's burst was done.
I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,
Alone with nature-but it may not be.

I have to struggle with the tossing sea
Of human life, until existence fades

Into Death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar

Through the thick woods and shadow-chequer'd glades,
While nought of sorrow casts a dimness o'er

The brilliance of thy heart-but I must wear,
As now, my garmenting of pain and care,
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet why complain? What though fo ndhopes deferr'd
Have overshadow'd Youth's green paths with gloom!
Still, Joy's rich music is not all unheard-

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There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird!
To welcome me within my humble home :-
There is an eye with Love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume!

Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight
Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest

Beneath these trees-and from thy swelling breast,
O'er them thy song shall pour, like a rich flood of light.


THE final predictions of this Prophet are well known for their powerful and lofty threatenings of national ruin. Yet the condition of his country at the moment, was unquestionably the last which could have justified any human conjecture of its dissolution by Divine vengeance. The people had but lately rebuilt their Temple, had conformed to the renewed law of their fathers, had received the recovered Scriptures, and had commenced a new and purified polity. That there

were remnants of the habits and corruptions of Babylonish life among them, is obvious from his rebukes, and those of Zechariah and Ezra. But those were slight stains, and the error which was predicted as the final source of their ruin-a ruin, too, at the distance of four hundred years—was of a wholly opposite character,—the national disdain of contact with the Gentile world, the national pride in the exclusiveness of their religion, and the national vindictiveness against that

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Mightiest of all Teachers, and Supreme of all Sovereigns, who came to announce the admission of mankind Indeinto the privileges of Israel. pendently of our direct knowledge of the universal inspiration of Scripture, this utter dissimilarity to human conclusions must make us feel that this awful denouncement of the matured vices of a land, then in their first period of regeneration, was the work of a knowledge above man. Malachi is said to have died young, after assisting the members of the Great Synagogue in the re-establishment of the law of the nation.

A SOUND on the rampart,
A sound at the gate;
I hear the roused lioness

Howl to her mate.
In the thicket at midnight,

They roar for the prey
That shall glut their red jaws
At the rising of day.
For wrath is descending

On Zion's proud tower;
It shall come like a cloud,
It shall wrap like a shroud,
Till, like Sodom, she sleeps
In a sulphurous shower.

For behold! the day cometh,
When all shall be flame;
When, Zion! the sackcloth

Shall cover thy name;
When thy bark o'er the billows

Of Death shall be driven; When thy tree, by the lightnings, From earth shall be riven: When the oven, unkindled

By mortal, shall burn;
And like chaff thou shalt glow
In that furnace of woe;
And, dust as thou wert,

Thou to dust shalt return.

'Tis the darkness of darkness, The midnight of soul!

No moon on the depths

Of that midnight shall roll.

No starlight shall pierce

Through that life-chilling haze ;

No torch from the roof

Of the Temple shall blaze.
But, when Israel is buried

In final despair,
From a height o'er all height,
God of God, Light of Light,
Her Sun shall arise-

Her great Sovereign be there!

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