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The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek ! he dies! The storm drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank.

The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain-streams which meet beside his booth.

Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his home.

Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.

The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky But the shower gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; receive me, my friends, from night.



The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I

She saw

see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream ?

The waves dark tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad before the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind ?

Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; receive me, my friends, from night.


Night is calm and fair : blue, starry, settled is night! The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is upon

the mountains. Trees glister : streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake : bright the stream of the vale.

I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.

Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead ? That form with the robe of snow-white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people : she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away: white without form, it ascends the hill.

The breezes drive the blue mist slowly over the narrow vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night.


Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half the night is past. The housewife, groping in the gloom, rekindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud : he sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to pass. He nods by the


rock. Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood. A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead, returning from the air.

The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.


Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or enclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me, stormy or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is

in grass.

poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.

Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy

tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins

They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the walls of our fathers ?".

Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let some graybeard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night pass, until morning shall appear in our hall. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer.

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Politics have nothing to do with this volume. The reader will have seen, that the questions between Whig and Tory are of no more concern to us, in these delightful lands of compilation, than any other interference which should limit their extent and freedom. There have been amiable and large-hearted men on both sides. Mr. Fox was one of them; and we repeat these accounts of him, as we should of any other human being under the like circumstances, because they suit this portion of our work, and the whole genial intention of it.

Mr. Trotter's book has some faults of style, but not in the passages extracted. He has given a valuable report of the way in which the great statesman passed his time at Saint Anne's Hill; and the account of his own feelings, while occupied in waiting his patron's last hour, especially during the visit to the dressing-room once occupied by the Duchess of Devonshire, is very striking. Saint Anne's Hill is in the neighborhood of Chertsey.


YT. Anne's Hill is delightfully situated; it commands a

rich and extensive prospect. The house is embowered in trees, resting on the side of a hill, its grounds declining grace. fully to a road, which bounds them at bottom. Some fine trees are grouped round the house, and three remarkably beautiful ones stand on the lawn ; while a profusion of shrubs are distributed throughout with taste and judgment. Here

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