The

that this reviewer, in notices of Grahame's subse-
quent works, made all the atonement competent to
his high jurisdiction. Critics are sometimes to be
pitied. They must labour on in their one limited
vocation. They must periodically tickle the public
taste, and, above all, they must be infallible.
man who, from the nature of his functions, must
be so, cannot afford to be at all times quite candid.
An erring decision leaves him in the inextricable
dilemma of spleen on the one hand, or incapacity on
the other-infirmity of temper or of understanding.
Reviewers cannot be expected to plead to either
charge; and they are thus cut off from the power
of making the amende honorable, which open
to every other class of writers.-The review of the
GEORGICS may, however, be accepted as a Pali-
node for the observations on THE SABBATH.

Grahame's vocation as a poet was now confirmed. In the following two years, during the long recess of the Scottish courts, the blessed breathing time of many a briefless wight, he retired with his family to a cottage at Kirkhill, on the classic banks of the Esk, and gave himself up to

"Calm contemplation and poetic ease. He has described the scenery of this secluded spot in the BIRDS OF SCOTLAND, which was partly composed here:

Thy tangling banks, well-wooded Esk, And Borthwick, thine, above that fairy nook Formed by your blending streams.

I

In none of his poems has the author more engagingly delineated his own feelings, tastes, opinions, and enjoyments, than in the BIRDS OF SCOTLAND. These representations are the charm of his writings; and the biographer who passes over this authentic and delightful record of Grahame's character as a man, neglects the richest materials in his possession. As the BIRDS OF SCOTLAND does not quite fall in with the design of this volume, we make the less scruple of quoting from it; and in his own simple and unaffected language, shewing what manner of man was the author of THE SABBATH. There were certain subjects which never failed to excite his moral indignation. Among these were the impressment of seamen, the African slave trade, and the evils attending on the manufacturing system. But the energy of his reprobation never equalled in degree the softness of his sympathy.

The impressed sailor-boy, the wonders of his fishing voyage, and the exquisite picture of his home and his parents, affords one fine example of the tenderness of the poet's nature :

"Low in a glen,

Down which a little stream had furrowed deep,
"Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel,
And brawling mingled with the western tide;
Far up that stream, almost beyond the roar
Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the rocks
With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurked,
Surrounded by a circlet of the stream.
Before the wattled door, a greens ward plat,
With daisies gay, pastured a playful lamb;
A pebbly path, deep-worn, led up the hill,

Winding among the trees, by wheel untouched,
Save when the winter fuel was brought home,
One of the poor man's yearly festivals.
On every side it was a sheltered spot,
So high and suddenly the woody steeps
Arose.

*

Here dwelt a pair,

Poor, humble, and content: one son alone,
Their William, happy lived at home to bless
Their downward years; he, simple youth,
With boyish fondness, fancied he would love
A seaman's life, and with the fishers sailed,
To try their ways far 'mong the western isles,
Far as Saint Kilda's rock-walled shore abrupt,
O'er which he saw ten thousand pinions wheel
Confused, dimming the sky: These dreary shores
Gladly he left; he had a homeward heart:
No more his wishes wander to the waves.
But still he loves to cast a backward look,
And tell of all, he saw, of all he learned;
Of pillared Staffa, lone Iona's isle,

Where Scotland's kings are laid; of Lewis, Sky,
And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs;
And he would sing the rowers timing chant,
And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve,
When low the sun behind the Highland hills
Was almost set, he sung that song, to cheer
The aged folks: upon the inverted quern
The father sat; the mother's spindle hung
Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun thread ;
Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed
Upon her son, and inly blessed the Lord,
That he was safe returned: Sudden a noise
Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel
Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band
Glare all around, then single out their prey.
In vain the mother clasps her darling boy,
In vain the sire offers their little all:
William is bound; they follow to the shore,
Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they stand,
And view in mute despair the boat recede.

In the vicinity of his rural retreat was the desolate abode of Sir George Mackenzie, King's Advocate for Scotland, the "Bloody Mackenzie" of covenanting annals,—a character whom popular tradition has not spared, however his political crimes have been glossed over by what the poet calls

"Modern history's too lenient touch."

We give "the tyrant's dwelling" for the sake of the reverse of the picture, which is one of those over which the Poor Man's Bard" lingered with charmed fondness:

"The tyrant's dwelling. There no martin builds Her airy nest; not even the owl alights

On these unhallowed walls: The murderer's head
Was sheltered by these walls; hands blood-imbrued
Founded these walls,-MACKENZIE's purpled
hands!-

Perfidious minion of a sceptred priest !
The huge enormity of crime on crime,
Accumulated high, but ill conceals

The reptile meanness of thy dastard soul;
Whose favourite art was lying with address,
Whose hollow promise helped the princely hand
To screw confessions from the tortured lips.
Base hypocrite! thy character, pourtrayed
By modern history's too lenient touch,
Truth loves to blazon, with her real tints,
To limn, of new, thy half-forgotten name,
Inscribe with infamy thy time-worn tomb,
And make the memory hated as the man.

But better far truth loves to paint yon house
Of humbler wall, half stone, half turf; with roof
Of mended thatch, the sparrow's warm abode;
The wisp-wound chimney, with its rising wreath;
The sloping garden, filled with useful herbs,
Yet not without its rose; the patch of corn
Upon the brow; the blooming vetchy ridge.

But most the aged man, now wandering forth,
I love to view; for 'neath yon homely guise
Dwell worth, and simple dignity, and sense,
Politeness natural, that puts to shame

The world's grimace, and kindness crowning all.
Why should the falsely great, the glittering names,
Engross the muse's praise? My humble voice
They ne'er engrossed, and never shall: I claim
The title of the poor man's bard: I dare
To celebrate an unambitious name;

And thine, KILGOUR, may yet some few years live,
When low thy reverend locks mix with the mould."

Of the amiable character of the man, which is everywhere so completely identified with his writings, the following is a fine trait :

"How sweet the first sound of the CUCKOO'S note !

Whence is the magic pleasure of the sound?
How do we long recall the very tree,

Or bush, near which we stood, when on the ear
The unexpected note, cuckoo! again,

And yet again, came down the budding vale ?
It is the voice of spring among the trees;

It tells of lengthening days, of coming blooms;
It is the symphony of many a song.

*

*

*

She, sole of all the innumerous feathered tribes,
Passes a stranger's life, without a home.

Home! word delightful to the heart of man, And bird, and beast!-small word, yet not the less Significant :-comprising all!

Whatever to affection is most dear,

Is all included in that little word,

Wife, children, father, mother, brother, friend.
At mention of that word, the seaman, clinging

Upon the dipping yard-arm, sees afar

The twinkling fire, round which his children cow'r,
And speak of him, counting the months, and weeks,
That must pass dreary o'er, ere he return.
He sighs to view the seabird's rapid wing.