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of alterations on the 48 Paraphrase,

supposed to be by ROBERT BURNS,

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“You will think differently when you are less excited,” | how she thanked him with all eloquent eyes, and hour said she faintly.

they spoke of their dangers and difficulties, and how “Never! Under strange circumstances, amid terrible they conjured up a bright and gladsome future, under scenes, has my love arisen. But I am not what I seem. the influence of rosy coloured hope, and how cheerily In station I am worthy of you. If your friends refuse me they welcomed the sight of the town they sought, not, shall I fear one here?”

would fill many pages.

The delight and wonder of her "I fear not,” was all she could say; and then, there friends, their gratitude to Wharton, their ready acquiescence before the face of heaven, in that great temple, not made in his wishes, are all things of course. So also was their with hands, without a smile, and with pale faces and tear- marriage—but it was no thing of course at all the hapful eyes, did they plight their troth, to be one for ever, and piness which resulted from their union. They left the to love one another all the days of their life ; and then, wilds and went to live in town, where the friends of after a silent prayer. for him who had died from his own Wharton hailed with delight her who had won their child reckless will, and an earnest request for pardon for the to thoughts of home; and though darksome regrets came shedder of blood, away they sped.

o'er his soul at times, never once did he sorrow for the How they journeyed on, how tenderly, how respect- meeting, on that summer eve, by the waters of Peocan fully Wharton treated his strangely and wildly won bride, Spring.


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CROSSFELL! confederate of the storm,

Grey monarch of the mountain range ;
Calmly for ever towers thy form

Above this atmosphere of change ;
And ever, as our footsteps turn,
Seems watching o'er their homeward bourne.
Though fells our bleak horizon close,

And hills o'er hills above us peer,
To thee alone our valley owes

Tribute of dread, O Mount Austere !
And notes thy signs of gloom or grace
As subjects watch their tyrant's face !
Thou treasurest up the streaky snows,

In wintry thrift pre-eminent;
And oft, when spring's soft verdure glows

In lowly vales, thy blasts are sent ;
And when the harvest-time is near,
Thy menace puts the land in fear.
Oft wild winds break thy shadowy band,

And through the vales thy storm-voice thrills ; While shivering, foodless, patient stand

“ The cattle on a thousand hills ;"
And hissing sleet or rattling hail
Are driven afar upon the gale.
Old prostrate trees, and scattered corn ;

Spring showers of leaves like autumn's shed; And severed branches, tempest-borne ;

And drifted snow, o'er pitfalls spread,
The withered herb, the roofless cot.
Can these thy trophies be forgot ?
Yet, wizard fell! whilo o'er the land

From thy veiled brow the shadows lour,
Oft have we climbed the height to stand

Within the circle of thy power ;
And almost, with our childhood's wonder,
Yet hear its dread continuous thunder!
Our earliest vision saw thy form,
Thou Atlas of our eastern sky!

in childhood, knew the storm
Whose billowy voice roared wild or high.
And where those mighty winds were furled,
Then seemed the boundary of the world.
We love thy smiles, as children love

Th' unbending of their warrior sire;
And e'en thy hostile panoply,

Or helm, by fancy's ligut admire ;
And climb thy skirts, or clutch thy crown,
Without the fear to meet thy frown.
Rise, veteran blast ! unshorn in power,

With memory's fragrance on thy wings!
Thy fierce assault, thy deaf' ning roar,

The garb that, fluttering, closer clingsThese wake more precious spells for me Than richest gales of Araby.

Our pagan fathers wondering stood,

As rose, 'mid calm, the tempest's wrath ; Or when their stalwart strength was bowed,

As some fierce whirlwind barred their path, While reigned around mysterious gloom, And far was heard its thunder-boom. They dreamed of wild, unearthly forms

Haunting thy lone and lofty brow, Pouring their demon rage in storms

Upon the western vales below; And when thy orient helm appeared, The present fiend our fathers feared. But ages passed—and on our land

The day-spring from the east arose,
And holy mon-a zealous band-

God's Word to demon-might oppose;
And raise the Christian standard here,
With rite of exorcism and prayer.
How beautiful, on this stern pile,

The feet of Him of old who brought
Unto our lonc, benighted isle,

Glad tidings of redemption bought!
And here, perehance, we press the sod
His Apostolic feet have trod.
Thy slopes are green; thy cloudless brow,

Where winds the sheep's or shepherd's path, Retains nor saintly traces now,

Nor vestige of the demon's wrath ; And whether reared of wood or stone, Augustine's cross, can ne'er be known. And since those men, of days remote,

O wild and seldom-trodden Fell!
Shepherds alone thy heights have sought,

And thou hast kept thy secret well;
Though iain Philosophy would trace
Thy howling helm-wind's nursing-place.
Save that in long, bright summer days,

When springs are low and winds are still,
And Nature's pilgrims climb to gaze

From each lone heath and lofty hill, Glad troops of friends have often tried Who first should scale thy slippery side. And oft the sheep below, that seem

Like stars in heaven or ships at sea,
Stirless, apart, as in a dream-

Images of tranquillity-
Fly their lone spring and tender grass,
Where troops of laughing gypsies pass.
And seldom shall the young and fair

E'en where earth's varied beauties meet,
Mid loveliness that may compare

With the bright scene around thy feetO'er which the gathered spells of time Have cast their witchery sublime.

Our ear,

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An announcement, calculated to startle Pres-, what particular corner is that?-have been crebyterian Scotland from one end of it to the other, dited ere now, on much stronger testimony than has been somewhat boldly hazarded, that our this brown affair that was brought, in a mysnational poet, Burns, had a hand in giving some terious way, into Mr. Johnstone's shop by a of the last touches to our national Paraphrases, mysterious “gentleman of Edinburgh ;” and and left the mark of his genius deeply stamped yet have turned out false after all. Ireland's

spuon them, The statement is not given by way of rious tragedies of William Shakspeare were said conjecture or surmise merely, but as a positive to be discovered in the corner of an old, unfreand peremptory averment.

quented garret, or some such out of the way place; To the Witness newspaper belongs the extra- and, at the first announcement of them, all the ordinary merit of being the first to proclaim this literati of the day welcomed them as veridiscovery, as remarkable in its way, if true, as any table productions of the Bard of Avon. But the of the vestiges of pre-Adamite existences found deception did not continue long. The glamour filagreed into fossils, or intaglioed on stones. But left the eyes of the literary public, and the prethat paper, though the first to proclaim, was tended plays, said, on the most unquestionable not the first to make the discovery. An article authority, to be in the genuine handwriting of in the Free Church Magazine for April on the Shakspeare, were found to be forgeries. Then Paraphrases led, it seems, “one of the readers, there was Chatterton, with his Rowley manua gentleman of Edinburgh, to bring to the shop scripts, taken out of the old chest of St. Mary of the publisher, Mr. Johnstone, a manuscript Redcliffe, Bristol. These were received at the volume which he had found lying among some first as authentic writings. But Grey and old hereditary papers, embrowned with the dust Mason, on being shown them, at once declared of half a century, in a waste corner of his library, them forgeries too. We do not say that Mr. and in which a considerable number of the Para- Begg has had any art or part in the old hereditary phrases was copied out in a small and neat, manuscript containing the altered Paraphrases, though somewhat common-place hand.” Of this any more than he has had in the composing volume every alternate page had been left blank, of the Paraphrases themselves ; nor that in and on the blank pages were found corrections the slightest degree, or in the smallest way or on the verse by three different hands. One of manner imaginable, does he resemble Ireland and these, on being shown to the Rev. James Begg of Chatterton in imaginative powers; his gifts are of Edinburgh, was straightway pronounced by him a different kind, and of a high order in their way. to be that of Burns; the "remarkable hand. But in one important respect he standson precisely. writing” of the poet having become familiar to the same grounds with them; namely, in being the him—so, and in none other strain, runs the tale first to promulgate the notable discovery to the —from his having seen it “in the big ha' Bible world. Both Ireland and Chatterton had a frauduof Jean Armour, the widow of Robert Burns,” | lent object in view in their impostures; as Lauder while he was minister of Maxwelltown Chapel, and Psalmanazar also had in theirs: the one, the Dumfries.

Mr. Begg, therefore, is the Colum- interpolator of passages into Latin authors to prove bus of this new discovery in the world of liter- Milton a plagiarist, and the other the inventor of ature; to substantiate which, a fac simile of the Formosan language and history. But there is some of the alleged alterations by Burns, ap- clearly no fraudulent or deceptive motive in this pears in the May number of the Free Church affair of the Paraphrases. It is simply an error Magazine.

in judgment, a mistake of the imagination, a Here, then, we have the whole amount of it- mere flight of the fancy-only Mr. Begg and his the old manuscript found in a waste corner of the two supporters need not be so very decided and library of “ a gentleman of Edinburgh"; the positive about it. pronunciamento of the Rev. James Begg; the The matter requires proof. The parties are decisive proclamation of an Edinburgh news- bound to establish their case. That they have not paper ; and the smaller and more modest an- yet even attempted to do. Mr. Begg's ipse dixit is nouncement of the Free Church Magazine, with considered quite enough to settle the question. its accompanying lithograph.

But there are many persons in this our country of And “that's our case, my Lord.” Dr. John- Scotland, besides the Rev. gentleman, to whom son admired “a good hater." We confess to hav- the handwriting of the poet of Scotland is familiar. ing predilections for any one who is a sturdy And there are a few alive, even at this day, who were

“ Prove all things" is a Scriptural familiar with the poet himself, and knew all his maxim. Well may the literary world pause and personal history. And yet to none of these, or to demand farther proof of the statement of altera- the generation that has intervened betwixt his tions of the Paraphrases, in the massy and mas- day and ours, did it ever occur that Burns had culine chirography of Burns himself, being ex- anything to do with the revision of the Paratant, before such a statement can be implicitly phrases. None of his numerous biographers believed.

Old manuscripts, found in queerer have ever come upon the trace of such a remarkplaces than “ the waste corner of a library”— able incident in his life, as this would have been,


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