DESCRIPTION OF WYOMING.-CAMPBELL.

On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming!
Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall
And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring
Of what thy gentle people did befall;

Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.
Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore!
Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,
The happy shepherd swains had naught to do
But feed their flocks on green declivities,
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe
From morn, till evening's sweeter pastime grew,
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew,
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down
Would echo flageolet from some romantic town,

Then, where on Indian hills the daylight takes
His leave, how might you the flamingo see
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes-
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:
And every sound of life was full of glee,

From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men;
While, hearkening, fearing naught their revelry,
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime
Heard, but in transatlantic story sung,
For here the exile met from every clime,
And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,
Were but divided by the running brook;
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet rung,
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook,

The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.

Nor far some Andalusian saraband

Would sound to many a native roundelay

But who is he that yet a dearer land

Remembers, over hills and far away?

Green Albin! what though he no more survey

Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,

Thy pellocks rolling from the mountain bay,

Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,

And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar.

Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer,
That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief,
Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!
Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,
And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,
That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:
And England sent her men, of men the chief,
Who taught those sires of Empires yet to be,
To plant the tree of life,-to plant fair Freedom's tree!

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp

Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom;
Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom,
Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb.
One venerable man, beloved of all,

Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,
To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:
And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN.-DICKENS.

MR. AUGUSTUS MINNS was a bachelor, of about forty, as he said—of about eight-and-forty, as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held "a responsible situation under Government." He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some £10,000 of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first-floor in Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time, regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; they were, dogs and children. He was not unamiable, but he could at any time have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order; and his love of

order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father) he had consented to become godfather, by proxy. Mr. Budden having realized a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford Hill, whither he retired, with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not, in future, more intimate.

"I'll break the ice, my love," said Mr. Budden, "by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday."

"Then, pray, Mr. Budden, write to your cousin at once," replied Mrs. Budden. "Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but that he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?-Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!"

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Very true," said Mr. Budden, musing, "very true, indeed, my love!"

On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast, and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer's name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door, which was, shortly afterwards, followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hand a particularly small card, on which was engraved, in immense letters, "Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.'s name was Amelia), Poplar Walk, Stamford Hill."

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Budden," ejaculated Minns, "what the deuce can bring that vulgar fellow here!-say I'm asleep-say I'm out, and shall never be home again-any thing to keep him down stairs."

"But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up," replied the servant; and the fact was made perfectly evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase, accompanied by a pattering noise, the cause of which Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

"Hem!-show the gentleman in," said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius, preceded by a large white shaggy dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog's appearance.

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My dear fellow, how are you?" said Budden as he entered. He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

"How are you, my hearty?"

"How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!" politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

"Thank you thank you-well-how are you, eh?"

"Uncommonly well, thank ye," said Minns, casting a look at the dog, who, with his hind-legs on the floor, and his fore-paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread-and-butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side. next the carpet.

"Ah, you rogue!" said Budden to his dog; "you see, Minns, he's like me, always at home, eh, my boy?-Egad, I'm precious hot and hungry! I've walked all the way from Stamford Hill this morning."

"Have you breakfasted?" inquired Minns.

"Oh, no!-came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let's have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.-Make myself at home, you see!" continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. "Ha!-ha!ha!-'pon my life, I'm hungry."

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

"I decidedly never was so hot in my life," continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; "well, how are you, Minns? 'Pon my life, you wear capitally!"

"D'ye think so?" said Minns; and he tried another smile. "Pon my life, I do!"

"Mrs. B. and-what's his name-quite well?"

'Alick-my son, you mean, never better-never better. But at such a place as we've got at Poplar Walk, you know, he couldn't be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings, and the brass knocker, and all that-I really thought it was a cut above me."

"Don't you think you'd like the ham better," interrupted

Minns, "if you cut it the other way?" He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation to all established rules.

"No, thank ye," returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, "I prefer it in this way-it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said -another lump of sugar, please; thank ye-she said, don't you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way come down, sir-the dog! he's spoiling your curtains, Minns-ha!-ha!-ha!" Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

"Come out, sir!-go out, hoo!" cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog, having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing, outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels of the door, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

"A good dog for the country that!" coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns-"he's not much used to confinement, though. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I'll take no denial, positively. Let's see, to-day's Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don't say no- -do."

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar Walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

"Now mind the direction," said Budden; "the coach goes from the Flowerpot, in Bishopsgate Street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you'll see, immediately opposite you, a white house."

"Which is your house-I understand," said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit and the story at the same time.

"No, no, that's not mine; that's Grogus's the great ironmonger's. I was going to say-you turn down by the side of the white house till you can't go another step further—mind