Or the hedgerow freshly blooming,
The ambient air with sweets perfuming;
Where Nature's unassisted band,
With native flowers has deck'd the land,
Or the heavenly honied tree,*
Rambler, I'd attend on thee.

Oh! thou gay and thoughtless rover,
That leavest when its sweetness' over,
Every flower that strikes thine eye
For its spotless purity.

And fly'st to woo another's grace
That blooms in some sequester'd place.
How like in this the perjur'd youth,
Who had vow'd eternal truth
To the unsuspecting maid,

When they met in twilight's shade;
But when, the false Lothario, he
Had stain'd her virgin purity,

And o'er her name, which had till now
Shone purer than the virgin snow,
A sullying shade of guilt had thrown,
Which nought but death could e'er atone.
He flies another fair to move,

With sighs and vows of endless love;
But not, like thine, his rifled flower
Continues on the gale to pour

So now,

Its fragrance o'er the smiling plain,
Nor miss the sweetness he has ta'en;
But as she, lily-like, had spread
Far from the crowd her modest head,
alas! shorn of the shade
Her over-arching virtue made,
She droops beneath the scornful rays
Of the world's too curious gaze;
In dust a wither'd blossom lies,
And, blasted in her beauty, dies.
Near Halifax.

A. I. A.

The honey dew upon forest trees, particularly upon beech and sycamore, has frequently occurred to my observation in this part of the country, and I have little doubt it has also to many of my readers.

THE MAN WITHOUT A SHADOW.

FROM THE GERMAN.

HERMAN DE BERLINCKEN was the son of a very good-natured man, who hated trouble and loved good cheer. He was a tradesman, and had once a thriving shop, but, finding business troublesome, neglected it, and indulged in good living. His wife, who was a cross woman, for ever teazing about debts and weekly accounts, was also a very unkind mother; for when little Herman would not learn, she sent him to bed. Every body wondered to see her wasting away with discontent, when she had such a pleasant man for her husband; but it seems that she could not live on smiles, and died when Herman was about fifteen. The widower lamented his loss; however, he comforted himself with his bottle and his pipe. Herman wept much at first-then thought he should be happy to be his own master; but at last he found that it is a sad thing to have no one to care about us.

Herman had a good heart, and was not without talent, but he had many faults; however, as long as his father could afford to entertain company, he was always called a charming young man. It is true that he was of little use in the counting house, and inattentive to business; but he took likenesses in watercolours, played on the flute, and sang prettily. The affairs of the father went worse and worse; he became a bankrupt, and Herman soon found that he was no longer considered as a charming young man. The poor man, who had laughed and played the agreeable for fifty years, could not stand the first touch of adversity. His faculties seemed all absorbed in terror; he sickened, and died.

Poor Herman now found himself alone in the world. After the first gush of sorrow, he began to consider how he was to be maintained. He made a few drawings; but the friends of the persons who sat to him never being satisfied with his likenesses, he threw away the pencil. He solicited an engagement at the concerts

of his native town, Ratisbon, as a flute-player, but none would practise with him-he was not wellgrounded in music; and as to singing, he very soon had no voice left. The charming young man was in danger of dying in the streets. A peculiar ill fortune seemed to hang over him, and he gradually sank from one position to another, till at last he was reduced to work in an obscure hovel in the suburbs, whence he never emerged till dusk. His wages barely supported him; at length a more able hand was found, and he was discharged. In the fever of his mind he walked about one whole day fasting, and about an hour before sunset found himself in the middle of a wide plain, several miles from Ratisbon, whither he was determined never to return. Suddenly he saw a welldressed man the stranger bowed to Herman with an air of respect. Herman was hurrying past him, when the stranger politely addressed him-- We shall hardly see so fine a day again this autumn.' 'I shall not see any day again!' Are you ill, sir? I hope you do not think yourself in danger.' 'Sir, I am a ruined man ; my life is a burden to me.' 'Forgive me, sir, but Í am grieved to see a gentleman of your appearance in distress. Do not turn away from me; believe me, I have the power to be your friend.' Herman's misfortunes had not taught him prudence or suspicion; he told the stranger his story, and was delighted at the interest with which he listened to his tale. So powerful seemed the sympathy of his new friend, that he thought he had never been loved before. At last, after a long pause, the stranger told the youth that he was an adept in the occult studies. This was all new to Herman; his mind dilated with wonder when the stranger held forth to him a magic purse, which he had only to bury at the foot of a peculiar tree from time to time, and repeat some Runic verses over it, to find it again full of gold as it then was. 'Oh, tell me,' he exclaimed, 'what am I to do to show my gratitude for such kindness?' I will ask a mere trifle.' 'Oh, name it!-any thing in my power.' 'Well, then, I

will ask you to give me your shadow.' 'My shadow ! But how can I give it?' You have only to consent to part with it; I can take it.' 'Surely you are jesting! However, it is at your service.'

The stranger suddenly gave the purse to Herman, and, stooping down, he made the action of folding up something, took a brief farewell, and disappeared. Herman was sorry to part with so dear a friend, without appointing a future meeting but a full purse makes a light sorrow:-he sat down, counted his money, and repeated his rhymes.

Before midnight he arrived at a small town, where he ordered a good supper, and went to bed. The next morning was cloudy; Herman slept till noon; he then sent for the proper tradesmen, furnished himself with good clothes, and the best apartment. So impatient was he to know if his purse would really fill again, that he bought twenty things he did not want. night he repaired to the tree, buried his purse, uttered his spell, dug it up, and found it-heavier than before! Oh, the good stranger! Herman wept with gratitude.

At

The next day there was a market for horses, and Herman purchased one. He was soon suited to his mind, and just as he was paying his money, the sun shining bright and the horse neighing lustily, up comes an old man to the seller, and pulls back his hand, crying out with agitation, 'Let go; what are you doing? that man has no shadow !' A general pause ensued; the place where Herman stood was left as void as if he had the plague. No shadow!' was echoed, in cries of horror, on every side.

Herman looked on the white flags, and saw that he really had no shadow; he felt guilty and frightened, and, edging off to the shady side of the street, crept home. In vain he said, 'The people of this town are very rude!' but he could not help feeling that it is a terrible thing to be hooted even by rude people. The sun shone bright into his room through a large window; he walked across the bright place on the floor, hoping

his shadow would appear, but no shadow came. Herman cried out, I wish the sun were never to shine again!' then sobbed forth, I wish I had not sold my shadow.' He flung his full purse on the floor; at last, exhausted, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was running after his horse and could not catch him, and that he was hooted whenever he turned about.

Next morning, when he expected his breakfast, the door was opened, a tray of provisions was pushed in on the floor, but no waiter appeared. Soon after, in came the landlord with two grave-looking clergymen : all stood at a distance, and the landlord said, 'Sir, I have brought back all the money you have spent in my house, just as you gave it me; I request you to leave it directly.' Herman offered to speak, but found they were determined not to hear him; he departed, and determined to travel in search of some rational neighbourhood, where his liberality would cause the slight deficiency of a shadow to be disregarded.

He wandered for months-but alas! he had more reason than the devil in Milton to revile the sun, for whenever his beams revealed his want of a shadow, disgust hunted him from society. A public walk became desolate whenever he appeared; his money was useless, for nobody would sell him any thing: if he patted a dog, the poor cur was hung; and if he gathered an apple, the tree was cut down. A thousand times did Herman invoke the stranger, and offer to return the purse and have his shadow back; no stranger came-but he thought, after every invocation, he heard a kind of deep, indistinct 'Ha! ha!' above, beneath, and around him. Sometimes he met with a civil stranger, and was often tempted to tell his story, but was always repulsed by the horror expressed of any thing like the black art. In vain Herman persisted that he was no conjurer.'

At last he repaired to a distant town, took an obscure lodging, and occupied himself in the acquisition of languages. The people concluded that he was translating a book to earn his bread, and he pretended that