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Beregonium. Would ye believe it, Tickler, he talks of their having discovered some of the old water-pipes lately, where the streets were: And all this anno five hundredesimo, or so?
HOGG (rousing.) Hech--eeaueeooeeyaaahee-hech yaw-aw-aw-ee-what's that you're saying about the water-pipes of Beregonium?
North was only remarking that you had made a sinall mistake—they turn out to be the gas-pipes, Hogg, that's all.
Like aneugh. I never saw them mysell. But how can ane tell a gas-pipe frae a water-pipe ?
ODOHERTY. Smaller in the bore, you know. And, besides, the stink is still quite discernible. Professor Leslie and Dr Brewster are hot as to the question, whether it had been oil-gas, or coal-gas. You must read that controversy ere your second edition come out.
Certainly, will I. Do they quote Queen Hynde meikle?
Thumping skreeds of her. Upon my word, Hogg, we are all quite delighted with Queen Hynde.
Toots, man. Ay, I can make as braw poetry as ony ane o' them a', when I like to tak the fash. I've a far better ane than the Queen on the stocks, out bye yonder. I was just wearied wi' writing sae mony prose novells—it's just a pleasure to me to be skelping awa' at the auld tredd again.
ODoherty has been reading us some of your best passages. I am heartily charmed, Hogg ; I wish you joy, with all my
soul. Wha the mischief set him on reading me? I'm sure he never could read onything in a dacent-like way since he was cleckit-rax me the Queen, and l'll let you hear a bit that will gar your hearts dinnle again-rax me the Queen, I say. Here's to ye a'-o' that's clean pushion-rax me the Queen-wha made that awfu' jug? I'll read you a real chifdoover noo. Ay, here's the bit. I see it's marked wi' the keelavine. That's some sense, hooever-00 ay, I see it's Mr North’s ain copy-I kent it wad never be yours, Captain ; ye have na the discretion to pick out a piece like this. Ye wad neyer ken’t by the lave-(reads ore rotundissimo.)
“ No muse was ever invoked by me, When the cloudy curtain pervaded the But an uncouth Harp of olden key;
east, And with her have I ranged the Border And the sunbeam kiss'd its humid breast, green,
In vain I look'd to the cloud overhead, The Grampians stern, and the starry To the echoing mountain dark and dread; sheen;
To the sun-fawn fleet, or aerial bow, With my grey plaid flapping around the I knew not whence were the strains till
strings, And ragged coat, with its waving wings; They were from thee, thou radiant Yet aye my heart beat light and high
dame, When an air of heaven, in passing by, O'er fancy's region that reign'st supreme; Breathed on the mellow chords; and Thou lovely Queen, of beauty most bright, then
And of everlasting new delight, I knew it was no earthly strain,
Of foible, of freak, of gambol, and glee, But note of wild mysterious kind,
Of all that pleases, From some blest land of unbodied mind.
And all that teazes, But whence it few, or whether it came And all that we fret at, yet love to see! From the sounding rock, or the solar In petulance, pity, and love refined, beam,
Thou emblem extreme of the female Or tuneful angels passing away
mind! O'er the bridge of the sky in the showery O come to my bower, here deep in day,
Thou Queen of the land 'twixt beaven I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest, and hell ;
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast; Even now thou seest, and smilest to see, Then anxious lain on the dewy lea, A shepherd kneel on his sward to thee: And look'd to a twinkling star for thee, But sure thou will come with thy glee. That nightly mounted the orient sheen, some train,
Streaming in purple and glowing in To assist in his last and lingering strain :
green ; O come from thy halls of the emerald And thought, as I eyed its changing bright,
sphere, Thy bowers of the green and the mellow My fairy Queen might sojourn there. light,
Then would I sigh and turn me around, That shrink from the blaze of the sum- And lay my ear to the hollow ground, mer noon,
To the littie air-springs of central birth, And ope to the light of the modest moon! That bring low murmurs out of the earth; O well I know the enchanting mien And there would I listen, in breathless Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
way, Her rokelay of green, with its sparry
Till I heard the worm creep through the hue,
clay, Its warp of the moonbeam, and weft of And the little blackamoor pioneer the dew ;
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear ; Her smile, where a thousand witcheries Nought cheer'd me on which the dayplay,
light shone, And her eye, that steals the soul away ; For the children of darkness moved alone! The strains that tell they were never Yet neither in field, nor in flowery heath, mundane;
In heaven above, nor in earth beneath, And the bells of her palfrey's flowing In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight mane;
wind, For oft have I heard their tinklings light, His elvish Queen could her minstrel find. And oft have I seen her at noon of the But now I have found thee, thou vanight,
grant thing, With her beauteous elves in the pale Though where I neither dare say nor
moonlight. Then, thou who raised'st old Edmund's For it was in a home so passing fair, lay
That an angel of light might have linAbove the strains of the olden day;
ger'd there: And waked'st the bard of Avon's theme I found thee playing thy freakish spell To the visions of his Midnight Dream- Where the sun never shone, and the rain Yea, even the harp that rang abroad
never fell, Through all the paradise of God,
Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er And the sons of the morning with it
And never was kiss'd by the breeze of By thee was remodell’d, and strung day; anew
It was sweet as the woodland breeze of O come on thy path of the starry ray,
even, Thou Queen of the land of the gloaming And pure as the star of the western heagrey,
ven, And the dawning's mild and pallid hue, As fair as the dawn of the sunny east, From thy valleys beyond the land of the And soft as the down of the solan's dew,
breast. The realm of a thousand gilded domes, Yes, now have I found thee, and thee The richest region that fancy roams !
will I keep, I have sought for thee in the blue hare. Though thy spirits yell on the midnight bell,
steep; And deep in the fox-glove's silken cell ; Though the earth should quake when For I fear'd thou had'st drunk of its po
nature is still, tion deep,
And the thunders growl in the breast of And the breeze of the world had rock'd thee asleep;
Though the moon should frown through Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye,
a pall of grey, And trembled because the prickles were And the stars fling blood in the milky nigh,
way ; And deem'd the specks on its foliage Since now I have found thee, I'll hold green
thee fast, Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen ; Till thou garnish my song—it is the last !" Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be In an immortal thing like thee! Vol. XVII.
-There's a strain for you, lads. What say ye to that ane, Mr Tickler ? Did Byron ever come that length, think ye? Deil a foot of him. Deil a foot of ane o'them.
It certainly can't be denied, that when you please, you outstrip the whole pack of them.
Every mither's son o' them. Hoots ! Hoots !-od, man, if I did but really pit furth my strength! ye wad see something
TICKLER, (aside) Preposterous vanity !-ha! ha! ha! ha! hah!
Come, James, you must not talk thus when you go out into the town. It may pass here, but the public will laugh at you. You have no occasion for this sort of trumpetting neither, no, nor for any sort of trumpetting. Sir, you have produced an unequal, but, on the whole, a most spirited poem. Sir, there are passages in this volume, that will kindle the hearts of our children's children. James Hogg, I tell you honestly, I consider you to be a genuine poet.
HOGG, (sobbing.) You're ower gude to me, sir, you're clean ower gude to me-I canna bide to expose mysell this way before ye a'-Gie me your haund, sir, -Gie me your haund too, Mr Tickler-Och, sirs ! och, sirs ! (weeps.)
Come, Hogg, you know Old Grizzy has a bed for you, this time. You shall go home with me to James's Court-Come away, James-(aside). What a jewel it is, Timothy
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154 ib. ib.
No. II. THE WORLD,
No. IV. Human Life,
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Also just Published,
No. XCVIII. for March 1825.
The Roman Catholic Church of Ireland.-The Subaltern, Chap. I. II. III. · and IV.-Horæ Germanicæ, No. 20. Schiller's Wilhelm Tell.- ODoherty on Irish Songs.-The Illiberal, No. I.-Letters from the. Continent, No. II.Works of the first Importance, No. I.--Antommarchi’s Last Days of Napoleon.—The Minuet.- The Narrative of the Death of Blanche of Bourbon. Retsche's Outlines to Fridolin.-Beck's Medical Jurisprudence. Noctes Aubrosianæ, No. XIX. &c. &c. &c.