His panting breast in foam and gore THE HOTTENTOI. MILD, melancholy, and sedate, he stands, His fathers' once, where now the White Man builds Has he no courage? Once he had—but, lo! "OUR native Land-our native Vale A long and last adieu! And Cheviot-mountains blue! "Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, "The battle-mound, the Border-tower, That Scotia's annals tell; The martyr's grave, the lover's bower— To each to all-farewell! "Home of our hearts! our fathers' home! Land of the brave and free! The keel is flashing through the foam That bears us far from thee: "We seek a wild and distant shore We leave thee to return no more, "But may dishonor blight our fame, "Our native Land-our native Vale A long, a last adieu! Farewell to Bonny Lynden-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue." THE YAMELESS STREAM. I FOUND a Nameless Stream among the hills, Now dashing through dark grottos, where distils Its deepening channels; flowing calmly on To join the ocean on his billowy beach. -But that bright bourne its current ne'er shall reach: It meets the thirsty desert,-and is gone To waste oblivion! let its story teach The fate of one-who sinks, like it, unknown. ROBERT POLLOK. 1799-1827. THE author of "The Course of Time" adds one more to the list of minds too early quenched by the very ardor of their pursuit of greatness. He was born at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, in Renfrewshire. Destined for the dissenting Presbyterian ministry of Scotland, he passed with reputation through his curriculum of study. But the severity of his application induced consumption, which cut off the young poet at the age of twenty-seven; he died in the south of England, to which he had been removed for the recovery of his health, shortly after his license to the ministry and the publication of his great poem. As the production of a youth, "The Course of Time" must rank among the most wonderful efforts of genius. The following letter to his brother, announcing its completion, will be read with interest: "MUIRHOUSE, July 7, 1826. "DEAR BROTHER,-It is with much pleasure that I am now able to tell you that I have finished my poem. Since I wrote to you last, I have written about three thousand five hundred verses; which is considerably more than a hundred every successive day. This, you will see, was extraordinary expedition, to be continued so long; and I neither can, nor wish to ascribe it to any thing but an extraordinary manifestation of Divine goodness. Although some nights I was on the borders of fever, I rose every morning equally fresh, without one twitch of headache; and with all the impatience of a lover, hasted to my study. Towards the end of the tenth book-for the whole consists of ten bookswhere the subject was overwhelmingly great, and where I, indeed, |