Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;

Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse:
Only projecting, with attention due,

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "who are you?"
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well arm'd, I hasten'd to the spot,
To find the viper, but I found him not;
And turning up the leaves, and shrubs around,
Found only, that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
"I hope," said 1, "the villain I would kill,
Has slipp'd between the door, and the door sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard;"
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
"T was in the garden that I found him first.
Even there I found him, there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean,
Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat,
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him never to come there no more.

JAMES BEATTIE.

Born 1735-Died 1803.

BEATTIE, whose father was a respectable Scottish farmer, was educated at the university of Aberdeen. In 1754 at the age of nineteen he commenced the study of Divinity, supporting himself at the same time by teaching an obscure school. Not long afterwards he was appointed one of the instructers in the high school of Aberdeen. In 1761 he published a volume of poems which were then highly commended, but which he afterwards, and perhaps rightly, judged were not worthy of preservation. At the age of twentysix he was appointed profsesor of Moral Philosophy in Aberdeen University, and held this office forty years. In 1770 appeared his Essay on Truth, the most extensively popular of his prose works, and a year after he published the first part of The Ministrel. The second part appeared in 1774.

He was unfortunate in his family, whose peace was destroyed by the insanity of his wife; and the last years of his existence were peculiarly calamitous. The loss of his two sons, both youths of extraordinary promise, and one for a short period associate professor with his father, injured his health, and depressed his spirits, even to the temporary derangement of his reason. "Yet amidst the depth of his melancholy he would sometimes acquiesce in his childless fate, and exclaim 'how could I have borne to see their elegant minds mangled with madness.' 999

It is upon the Ministrel that the poetical celebrity of Beattie exclusively rests; and this poem displays a sweet fancy, and abounds in passages of great beauty, both in description and sentiment. A vein of pathetic moral reflection runs through the whole of it, which is of the purest kind, and very elevating in its influence. We have a fine instance of his descriptive power in the stanzas upon morning, especially in the line "Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings, -a very striking circumstance, and expressed in the most vivid language possible. In the romantic character of Edwin he has exhibited the youthful meditation and fancies of genius, as it unfolds in retirement, and is afterwards strengthened by study, in a manner which is not only interesting but instructive.

EDWIN.

THERE liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady.

But he, I ween, was of the north countrie:
A nation fam'd for song, and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest: innocent, though free;
Patient of toil; serene, amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.

The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living water from the rock:
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went

From labour health, from health contentment springs,
Contentment opes the source of every joy;

He envied not, he never thought of, kings;
Nor from those appetites sustain❜d annoy,

That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy :
Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;
He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy,
For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd,
And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;
Each season, look'd delightful, as it past,
To the fond husband, and the faithful wife;
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life
They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm
Which in ambition's lofty land is rife,

Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm
Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

The wight, whose tales these artless lines unfold,
Was all the offspring of this humble pair:
His birth no oracle or seer foretold:
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,

Nor aught that might a strange event declare.
You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;
The parent's transport, and the parent's care;
The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;
And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy;
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye:
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.
Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy;
And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why;
The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad;
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display?
Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;
Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped,
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head;
Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring:

His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed
To work the woe of any living thing,

By trap or net, by arrow or by sling;
These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield;
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field:

And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?
Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn;
Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
And villager abroad at early toil.-

But lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost: What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th' enormous waste of vapour tost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound! In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene: In darkness, and in storm, he found delight; Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene, Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wish'd not to control.

EDWIN'S MEDITATIONS IN AUTUMN.

"O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom! " (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)

"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!

Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?
Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?
For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,
And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.

"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool,
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!
Ah! see, th' unsightly slime, and sluggish pool,,
Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd;

Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray :
And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,
Down the vale thunders; and with wasteful sway,
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.

"Yet such the destiny of all on earth;

So flourishes and fades majestic man!
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan:
O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews, wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span:

Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

"And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn :
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return 3
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?-
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

"Shall I be left abandon'd in the dust,
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive,
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive

With disappointment, penury, and pain ?-
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,

Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught,
In sooth, 't was almost all the shepherd knew,