A WITCH'S CHANT.

THIS is a most unearthly song, copied from an unearthly tragedy of my own, published anonymously with others, in two volumes, in 1817, by Messrs Longman and Co., and John Ballantyne. The title of the play is All-Hallow Eve. It was suggested to me by old Henry Mackenzie. After a short but intimate acquaintance, I threw it aside, and my eyes never fell upon it till this night, the last of November, 1830. The poetry of the play has astounded me. following is but a flea-bite to some of it.

The

THOU art weary, weary, weary,

Thou art weary and far away,

Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me,
Come before the dawn of day.

I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still-
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.

And in the cleft of heaven I scan

The giant form of a naked man,

His eye is like the burning brand,

And he holds a sword in his right hand.

All is not well. By dint of spell,

Somewhere between the heaven and hell

There is this night a wild deray,

The spirits have wander'd from their way.

The purple drops shall tinge the moon
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red

With blood by guilty angels shed.

Be as it will, I have the skill

To work by good or work by ill;

Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,

And here's for conscience, worst of all.

Another chant, and then, and then,

Spirits shall come or Christian men—

Come from the earth, the air, or the sea,
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!

Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind, Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind; And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,

The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.

Over the dog-star, over the wain,

Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,

Haste-haste-haste to me!

Then here's for trouble, and here's for smart, And here's for the pang that seeks the heart; Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,

And here's for conscience, the worst of all!

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

THIS is likewise on the proscription list—a proscribed rebel against the sovereign authority of Mr Little the Great; but if I have trod too near the heels of his dignity, I am sure it was through no ill intention. The verses were once harmonized by Smith to an Irish air called "The Twisting of the Rope."

How dear to me the hour when daylight springs,

And sheds new glories on the opening view,
When westward far the towering mountain flings
His shadow, fringed with rainbows on the dew,
And the love-waken'd lark enraptured springs
To heaven's own gate, his carols to renew!

In every flowering shrub then life is new,
As opening on the sun its gladsome eye;
So is life's morning-blithely we pursue
Hope's gilded rainbow of the heavenly dye,
Till worn and weary we our travel rue,

And in life's cheerless gloaming yearn and die!

THE HILL OF LOCHIEL.

A JACOBITE Song, suggested by the name of the air. To be found in the Scottish Minstrel.

LONG have I pined for thee,

Land of my infancy,

Now will I kneel on thee,

Hill of Lochiel !

Hill of the sturdy steer,

Hill of the roe and deer,

Hill of the streamlet clear,

I love thee well!

When in my youthful prime,
Correi or crag to climb,

Or tow'ring cliff sublime,

Was my delight;