legs, half breeched, half trowsed; for the matters were of a nondescript kind-looser and looser waxing as they ascended their own selves forming the paunch, and suspended on one side by a dirty cream-coloured ribbon-on the other by a red string daubed ali over with ink and sealing-wax-a pair of Scotch gallowses. But to sleep! lie down, Juno, and hang your snoring! Of all mortal annoyances, we love the snorer least ;-we have heard him named the harp of dreams, whose music pouring out its divine monotony, is index strange of stirring fancies, showered by heaven or oozing grim and horrible from the pit of perdition-the vagaries of that smoke that ascendeth for ever and ever! Away with the ideathe snorer is nature's abortion-hog-nosed-boar-eyed, and fond to ecstasy of his reeking sty. Forgive me, Juno! thou art a kind, gentle animal-" sagacious of our quarry from afar." Our eyes are heavy-Gentle reader!-we have more to say; only let us sleep our sleep.

"To-morrow-first of all brings purposes,

Then it brings actions, then it brings regrets,
And night, and sleep, and dull oblivion,

Yet weep, ye dames of England,

For twenty summers past

Ye danced and sang while Scotland weptSuch mirth can never last.

And how can I do less than laugh,

When England's lords are nigh? It is the maids of Scotland

Must learn to wail and sigh;

For here spurs princely Hereford-
Hark to his clashing steel!
And there's Sir Philip Musgrave,
All gore from helm to heel;
And yonder is stout d'Argentine;
And here comes, with a sweep,
The fiery speed of Gloucester-
Say wherefore should I weep?

Weep, all ye English maidens,

Lo, Bannockbrook's in flood! Not with its own sweet waters, But England's noblest blood. For see, your arrow shower has ceased, The thrilling bow-string's mute; And where rides fiery Gloucester ? All trodden under foot.

Wail, all ye dames of England,

No more shall Musgrave know
The sound of the shrill trumpet-
And Argentine is low.
Thy chivalry, proud England,
Have turned the rein to fly;
And on them rushes Randolph-
Hark! Edward Bruce's cry.

'Mid reeking blood the Douglas rides, As one rides in a river;

And here the good king Robert comes

And Scotland's free for ever.

Now weep, ye dames of England,

And let your songs prolong

The Bruce-the Bruce of Bannockburn

In many a sorrowing song.

THE SON OF ANNAWAN.

AN INDIAN FRAGMENT.

I.

NATURE was gay in the Valley of Flowers-the leaves were begun to bud, and birds sung their songs of love in the cedar-grove. The white man sat in his cabin-bower, when towards him came a warrior of the wilderness, leading his mate; and on her breast there hung a little child. It was a lovely flower, in the young morn of its days, and in the rosebud of its beauty. These dark-skinned children came to beg of the white man-pity-pleading is the aspect they wear. They have come from afar, for their feet are bleeding; they are sorely a-hungered, and their hearts are almost broken.

Thus spoke the spirit-stricken Indian warrior, drawing up his tall proud form, and pointing to the sun. "Brother, behold the Great Star of Day! thrice hath it faded into the waters of the west, since I or mine have tasted the bread of life. Wilt thou give us food? wilt thou bless my child and the mother of my children ?" "Begone!" scowled the white man," begone, and earn thy bread by the sweat of the brow!"

The soul of the warrior kindled within him, and he stood statuestill, like the blasted tree on a barren moor. At length he spoke: "You bid us labour; but where are our Indian lands? ye have stolen from our race their pleasant, pastures. The vines which I 'planted overshadow your cabin; you grow your corn over the graves of my people. Yes! we had lakes and hunting-grounds in other days,-ere the foot of the white man was printed on our sands-ere your axe resounded in our forests, plenty ranged our fields and swam our floods. Then the sky was always bright on our cabins, and the Onondagas were happy. No more the sleeping congar is brought ashore on the barbed spear, and we never meet in the fallen forests the bounding deer, the beauty of the wild. And now my tribe are wanderers, and now my father's son must bow at the door of a stranger. Ye have not left us a remnant of joy. Your plough has gone through the land of my love and of my Father's bones. Ye dwell above the ashes of our homes. Why is the eagle's beak red as the leaf in the Moon of Falling leaves? who fed the wolves of the wilderness? whose bones are in the tangled jaw of the panther? Alas! my race are passing away like leaves beneath the harvest moon. For me I am old and feeble now. Who lives for ever? The palsied hand soon ceases to bend the pride of bows→→

the growing mist of age soon gathers on the bright eye of truest aim the once firm step is soon missed on the lone path of the hunter -and the heart of many days grows weary with beating. I wish that I had died in the morn of life, in the battles of my youth.-I have been a hunter of the wild-a warrior of the waste, and can bear hunger: but this fond mate of mine, and this little one, have they a warrior's spirit? Bless them, and give them to eat. O bless this bird of my bosom, and shed the tears of mercy on this young rose of the wilderness, that is born to bloom among the thorns of grief!"

But to this petition the white man gave no heed. Then said the resigned son of the forest," But I will not mourn, nor let the bow of my spirit break !—will tears make flowers to grow, or will sighs nourish corn?"

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Still the white man was unmoved-he heeded not the tears of the mother, nor the innocent smile of the infant on her bosom. But amid the young ones who played around the cabin-door, there was a little girl-a tender fawn of a few moons-a cherished rose that would soon be blossoming in the bower of domestic love. Her dove-eyes wept-her gentle heart was heaving. She knew the dark-skinned mother loved her young. Her eye was as the little blue-flower which she gathered in the glades-her skin was as the water-lily, or the sunset touching the white folds of the clouds of evening. This mountain-flower looked up to her stormy sire, while the drops of feeling trembled in her eye. 'O, Father!" said she, "bid the red children sit beside our fire, and eat our bread, lest they faint and die!" she threw her tendril arms around his neck, beseeching him. "Father, you say you love me-then bless them for my sake!" There was a little bright-haired boy playing by her side, who also joined in this generous prayer. The old tyrant was moved. The Indians entered the lodge with joy. Willingly did the little maiden and the bright-haired boy tend the strangers. They placed the faggot on the fire. Ripe were their berries, and sweet the roasted corn. The strangers eat and were satisfied; and with handfulls returned to their forest-homes. As they went, they looked up to the Great Spirit with gratitude, and back to the home of the kind-hearted children, with a blessing.

II.

Many years passed away; and that happy girl and boy, who blessed the wanderers, had reached the noonday of life. The leaves had fallen and faded many times, and the forest flowers had often bloomed and died in the prairies, when at length they were living on in wedded bliss, as happy-hearted as their sunny clime. Their cottage was far away from the scenes of childhood, on a sun-loved