Why pours the mountain his unfailing rills?

Why teems with flowers the vale, with life the sky!
Why weds with loveliness utility?

Why woos the foodful plain, in blessing blest,

The sons of labour to her virgin breast?
Why is the transcript of thy heaven so fair,
If man, poor victim! lives but to despair?

O Thou, whose brightning wing is plumed with light, At once that pinion's beauty and its might;

Thou true Prometheus, by whose lore we're taught
To fix on adamant the fleeting thought,
Star-ruling science, calculation strong,

The march of letters, and the array of song!
Twin-born with Liberty, and child of Love,
Woe-conqu❜ring Knowledge! when wilt thou remove
Th' opprobrium of the earth-the chain'd in soul?
When wilt thou make man's deadliest sickness whole ?
Lo! while our "Bearers of glad tidings" roam
To farthest lands, we pine in gloom at home!
And still, in thought, I hear one whirlwind past!
Still hurtles in my soul the dying blast,
The echo of a hell of sound, that jarr'd

The ear of Heaven, as when His angels warr'd!
Terrific drama! and the actors men;

But such may shuddering earth ne'er see again;
Unlike her children, less than fiends or more!
And one, of scarcely human grandeur, bore
World-shaking thunder on his sightless wing;
But when thy spear assail'd his brandish'd sting,
He waked to half a Cæsar. Him the frown
Of ruin dash'd beneath thy axle down.

Then horror shook him from his death-like sleep;
Then vengeance cast him o'er the troubled deep;
And on the wings of retribution hurl'd,

His demon shadow still appals the world!

When, Knowledge, when will mortals learn thy lore?

They plant thy tree, and water it with gore.
When wilt thou, when, thy power almighty prove,
And bind the sons of men in chains of love?
Rise, hope of nations, and assuage their ills!
This wills thy Teacher, this thy Parent wills.
For this, Love taught thy childhood in her bower,
And bade thee syllable her words of power,
Till brighten'd on thy brow sublimest thought,
And she, thy teacher, wonder'd as she taught,
Oh, rise, and reign, bless'd power that lov'st to bless;
Queen of all worlds, best name of mightiness!
Thy book of life to Labour's children give :
Let Destitution learn to reap and live ;
And Independence, smiling on thy brow,
Sing hymns to Love and Plenty, o'er the plough!
Thy kingdom come! on earth let discord cease;
Come thy long Sabbath of bless'd love and peace!
No more let Famine, from her idle hell,
Unwonted guest, with Love and Labour dwell,
Till Death stares ghastly wild in living eyes,
And at Pride's bloated feet his feeder dies,
While Luxury, hand in hand with Ruin, moves,
To do the Devil's work and call it Love's.
What whirlwind, in his dread magnificence,
What Samiel blasts, like hopeless indolence?
And man, when active most, and govern'd best,
Hath ills enough, insatiate, to molest
His fragile peace-some strong in evil will,
But weak in act; and others arm'd to kill,

Or swift to wound :-Revenge, with venomous eyes:
Distrust, beneath whose frown Affection dies;
Scorn, reptile Scorn, that hates the eagle's wing;
Mean Envy's grubs, that stink, and long to sting ;
Mischance Disease, Detraction's coward dart,

And the long silence of the broken heart;
Nor only these. Tradition is the sigh

Of one who hath no hope; and History
Bears like a river deep, tumultuous, wide,
Gloom, guilt, and woe, on his eternal tide.
Nor need we read of regal wrath and hate,
Troy lost by Love and army-scatt'ring Fate.
The humblest hamlet's annals wake a sigh;
And could yon cot, hoar with antiquity,

Relate what deeds within it have been done,

What hopeless suffering there hath cursed the sun,
The tale might draw down Pride's parched cheeks severe,
From Power's hard eye, e'en Pluto's iron tear.

-Scottish Music.

BEATTIE.

[JAMES BEATTIE was born at Lawrencekirk, Kincardineshire, in 1735. He was the son of a small farmer, and received his early education in the village school. He entered the Marischal College, Aberdeen, in 1749; and having passed through the humbler steps of a village schoolmaster, and usher to the grammar school of Aberdeen, was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College in 1760. His chief work as a metaphysician is his "Essay on Truth." His "Minstrel" will give him an enduring place amongst the best of the minor poets. In 1773, he received the degree of D.C.L. from the University of Oxford, and obtained a pension from the crown He died in 1803.]

There is a certain style of melody peculiar to each musical country, which the people of that country are apt to prefer to every other style. That they should prefer their own is not surprising; and that the melody of one people should differ from that of another is not more surprising, perhaps, than that the language of one people should differ from that of another. But there is something not unworthy of notice in the particular expression and style that characterise the music of one nation or province, and distinguished it from every other sort of music. Of this diversity Scotland supplies a striking example. The native melody of the High

lands and Western Isles is as different from that of the southern part of the kingdom as the Irish or Erse language is different from the English or Scotch. In the conclusion of a discourse on music as it relates to the mind, it will not perhaps be impertinent to offer a conjecture on the cause of these peculiarities; which, though it should not—and indeed I am satisfied that it will not— fully account for any one of them, may, however, incline the reader to think that they are not unaccountable, and may also throw some faint light on this part of philosophy.

Every thought that partakes of the nature of passion has a correspondent expression in the look and gesture; and so strict is the union between the passion and its outward sign, that, where the former is not in some degree felt, the latter can never be perfectly natural, but, if assumed, becomes awkward mimicry, instead of that genuine imitation of nature which draws forth the sympathy of the beholder. If, therefore, there be, in the circumstances of particular nations or persons, anything that gives a peculiarity to their passions and thoughts, it seems reasonable to expect that they will also have something peculiar in the expression of their countenance, and even in the form of their features. Caius, Marius, Jugurtha, Tamerlane, and some other great warriors, are celebrated for a peculiar ferocity of aspect, which they had no doubt contracted from a perpetual and unrestrained exertion of fortitude, contempt, and other violent emotions. These produced in the face their correspondent expressions, which, being often repeated, became at last as habitual to the features as the sentiments they arose from were to the heart. Savages, whose thoughts are little inured to control, have more of this significancy of look than those men who, being born and bred in civilised nations, are accustomed from their childhood to suppress every emotion that tends to interrupt the peace of society. And while the bloom of youth lasts, and the smoothness of feature peculiar to that period, the human face is less marked with any strong character than in old age. A peevish or surly stripling may elude the eye of the physiognomist; but a wicked old man, whose visage does not betray the evil temperature of his heart, must have

more cunning than it would be prudent for him to acknowledge. Even by the trade or profession the human countenance may be characterised. They who employ themselves in the nicer mechanic arts, that require the earnest attention of the artist, do generally contract a fixedness of expression suited to that one uniform sentiment which engrosses them while at work. Whereas other artists, whose work requires less attention, and who may ply their trade and amuse themselves with conversation at the same time, have, for the most part, smoother and more unmeaning faces their thoughts are more miscellaneous, and therefore their features are less fixed in one uniform configuration. A keen penetrating look indicates thoughtfulness and spirit; a dull torpid countenance is not often accompanied with great sagacity.

and

This, though there may be many an exception, is in general true of the visible signs of our passions; and it is no less true of the audible. A man habitually peevish, or passionate, or querulous, or imperious, may be known by the sound of his voice, as well as by his physiognomy. May we not go a step further, say, that if a man, under the influence of any passion, were to compose a discourse, or a poem, or a tune, his work would in some measure exhibit an image of his mind?. I could not easily be persuaded that Swift and Juvenal were men of sweet tempers; or that Thomson, Arbuthnot, and Prior were ill-natured. The airs of Fenton are so uniformly mournful, that I cannot suppose him to have been a merry or even a cheerful man. If a musician, in deep affliction, were to attempt to compose a lively air, I believe he would not succeed: though I confess I do not well understand the nature of the connexion that may take place between a mournful mind and a melancholy tune. It is easy to conceive how a poet or an orator should transfuse his passions into his work; for every passion suggests ideas congenial to its own nature; and the composition of the poet or the orator must necessarily consist of those ideas that occur at the time he is composing. But musical sounds are not the signs of ideas; rarely are they even the imitations of natural sounds; so that I am at a loss to conceive how it should happen that a musician, overwhelmed