en, a Tale of
Teviot-dale_, as the sun of the volume. It is in Spenserian verse, and
a more graceful composition cannot be found in either of the Annuals.
It is too long for entire extract, but we will attempt to string
together a few of its beauties. The scenery of the Glen is thus
described:--

A rustic home in Lynden's pastoral dell
With modest pride a verdant hillock crown'd:
Where the bold stream, like dragon from the fell,
Came glittering forth, and, gently gliding round
The broom-clad skirts of that fair spot of ground,
Danced down the vale, in wanton mazes bending;
Till finding, where it reached the meadow's bound,
Romantic Teviot on his bright course wending.
It joined the sounding streams--with his blue waters blending.

Behind a lofty wood along the steep
Fenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen:
And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep,
Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen,
Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men,
At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voice
Of children nutting in the hazelly den,
Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise,
Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.

Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,
By time and outrage marked with many a scar,
Told of past days of feudal pomp and power
When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.
But that was long gone by: and waste and war,
And civil strife more ruthless still than they,
Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,
Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,
O'er this secluded spot,--sole remnant of their sway.

Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild,
husbandman," and his wife--

She he loved in youth and loved alone,
Was his.

* * * * *

And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm
Are all the world to him: he feels no sting
Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm,
Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,
Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.

Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,
The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,
Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,
Met the fierce typhon-blast--and perished there:
But she was left the rustic home to share
Of those who her young mother's friends had been:
An old affection thus enhanced the care
With which those faithful guardians lov