THE SONG OF THE HILL SPIRIT.

It is the spirit of the Hill

Hark! Hark!

To the spirit of the glen she calls,

With a voice like the song of the morning lark

To one in a dungeon's walls.

Daylight on my purple peaks

Is sinking down to rest,

Few and faint are the golden streaks

Which gleam in the tranquil west;

The owl upon the twilight air

Is flitting to and fro,

The fox has left his grassy lair

Which lies beneath the owl's nest, where

It waves on a leafy bough.

Glad are the fox and the old grey owl
It is their hour to prowl.

And see above yon woody height
The evening star shines chill and bright,
There are spirits weaving round it now
From the flower-scented dew that shrouds
Yon mountain's lone and hoary brow
A coronet of clouds.

'Tis weaving and 'twill hide full soon
With a thick and pearly veil
That blue star from the rising moon
Which comes in her splendour pale,
And envieth that near her throne
Its light should dim her own.

Come then sister, through the air
We will sail on the south wind's wing,
And bathe in the silver moon-beam fair
Where it kisses the haunted spring;
Hasten sister, hasten then,
Leave thy dark and dewy glen.

Neelghierries, 1823.

H. M. P.

A FAREWELL LAY TO THE EAST.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Oh! do not say 'tis folly, thus to suffer heartfelt pain
The friends I leave behind me here I ne'er may see agam
Should not the land, where I have lived for thirteen years and more,
Have made an int'rest in my breast?—I love this Indian shore!

You bid me think of early days, of youth, and hope, and home-
Oh! I have thought of them, till thought became hope's gloomy tomb:
Yes! they are dear, those bygone times,-but where are they who, then,
With kind, kind words and kinder acts made bright my Highland glen?
Oh! some-nay, most-of all that smiled, are silent 'neath the sod,
And others, aliens, like myself, on foreign strands have trod :—-
The friendships of our boyhood, sweet and sunny tho' they be,
Have little strength to cope with all the changes on Life's sea.
And Home-what was my home-where first my infant breath I drew,
Where first the germ of poesy within my spirit grew,
May I not find it now a spot forsaken and unkind.

With ghostlike sounds and shadows filled, to vex the yearning mind?
Home-word of life! what doth it mean? "Tis Love that makes our home,-
Where we are loved,-where we are prized:-wherever we may roam,
That spot becomes our home where best our hearts have placed their trust,
In life, 'tis where our friends abide-in death, 'tis in the dust!

My brothers? they are dead, all-all! my sisters? one sleeps well,
In that remember'd place of graves within our native dell;
Another-Oh! how kind she was, ere cruel cares came on
To dim her sweet domestic life! her love-it is not gone

e!

My father is a grey old man, the pastor of his flock,
And tho' time's snows are on his head, his heart doth still unlock
Its treasures of a parent's love and all a guardian's care,
For one-the last of all his sons-least worthy such to share!
My mother? She will welcome me, with many a fond embrace,
While tears of fond attachment cloud the beauty of her face;
Yea! beautiful thou wert, sweet mother! and to me
The friend affectionate and true, ev'n from mine infancy!

And age hath wintered on their brows, and they are poor and old,
And I
go back-their last, worst son-go back and bring no gold;
I cannot smooth their latter days with gifts and gems of price,
But well I know, to them my heart's affection will suffice.

Yes, they are old, and I must cross the fierce and fickle main,
Ere I can kneel at their dear feet and press their hands again;
And life uncertain is and brief-ere then they may be gone,
And Scotland be a desert place, where I shall be alone.

Alone? alone! it is a word that falls upon my heart

Like the knell that speaks of death and dole when those we love depart― Depart for brighter regions, where no solitude is known;

Alas! how well my heart hath conn'd that dark, dark word—" alone!"

For others, in that northern land, I've little love or care

Of all the friends who loved me once not one, perhaps, is there;
I recollect each haunt of yore, with many a dream of love,
But, India! to thy friendly shore my thoughts shall often rove.
Let me unclasp the book of love and show how fair thou art,
To such as leave like me their mark within a friendly heart;
For, like the wind-harp answering each breeze that wanders by,
A tone of all thy scenes is brought by each fond memory!
The jungle with its tortile tracks, the forest with its flowers,
The rough ravine, where craftily the lurking libbard cowers,-
The tyger's dark and dreaded den, beside the nullah's bed,

The shades where elephants are found, 'neath graceful bamboos spread:
The topes of dark green tamarinds, full podded thro' each bough,
The fertile marsh, where fields of rice in emerald ledges grow,—
And groves of mangoes, freighted well with globes of luscious taste,
And orange gardens, rich in fruits, by richer flowers embraced :-

The tall palmyra on the sand, a vegetable dome!—
The feathery cocoa, with its nuts, and wine of silver foam,—
The wild wood-apple's spicy leaves, the banyan's broad arcade,
Where holy mendicants with snakes divide the tent-like shade:

The shaddock bowers-the moogra clumps,-whose breath is like a draught,
The sombre Hindoo fane, whence floods of gummy incense waft ;—
The painted shrine, where pagans plead and lay in reverence down
Sweet powders, peacocks' plumes, rich oils, and many a floral crown :—
The Moslem's haughtier place of prayer, the mosque that gleams afar,
With many a clustering cupola, and many a bright minär;
Where swells the solemn music of the old Muezzin's cry,
That, in the darkness of the night, says "Fear not-God is nigh!"

I'll think of all!-The tombs lit up with lamps and jasmin buds,-
The playful squirrel on the tree,the monkey in the woods,-
The harmless lizard on the walls,-the mungoos frisking by,
Oh! all, when I am far away, shall spring to mem'ry's eye!

'Tis ever thus--'tis ever thus-the past is aye the best,-
The absent spot is sweetest still,-most loved the absent breast;
And there are some I leave behind, whom I may never see,
More dear to this sad heart of mine than others e'er can be!
Madras, Dec. 1831.

Feronià Elephant.

HAZLITT'S LIFE OF NAPOLEON.

As very few copies of the two last volumes of Mr. Hazlitt's Life of Napoleon have reached this country, we propose to lay some extracts from it before our readers, to most of whom they will be "as good as manuscript." The work consists of four large octavo volumes, the two first of which were published in 1828, and the two last were hardly in the printer's hands, when the author died. As we received the work too late in the month to write an entirely original review, we shall be indebted to a contemporary for a considerable portion of this notice. Mr. Hazlitt intended to have given a preface, explanatory of his reasons for undertaking so arduous a task, but he was seized with his last illness before he could prepare it. From a slight anonymous introduction prefixed to the third volume, we learn that much time was occupied, and great expense incurred to obtain ample materials for the work; and that not satisfied with books and written documents, Mr. Hazlitt spent two years in Paris for the especial purpose of conversing with persons most likely to afford him accurate information. Accordingly, his work abounds in anecdotes and details, that throw a new light on many important points in the History of Napoleon; while the originality and power of the author's mind have given even to the most familiar materials an air of novelty and freshness. Those who have been accustomed to look upon Napoleon as a monster, and to regard popular rights and the sovereignty of the people with disdain, will derive little pleasure from this publication, and will, perhaps, accuse Mr. Hazlitt of strong partialities and inveterate prejudices. If a detestation of tyranny, a passionate love of liberty, and a profound respect for intellectual greatness were inconsistent with impartiality and candour, he could not be defended from the charge; but an Historian may, surely, be rigidly just and trustworthy, though neither a Tory nor a believer in the divine right of kings, so long as he states facts as he finds them, and supports the general principles of truth and justice. Mr. Hazlitt is an historian of this class, and his indignation against the enemies of freedom and mankind need not be attributed to interested views or party spirit. It may have been expected by some, that his ardent and wellknown admiration of Napoleon would insensibly lead him to compose an apology or panegyric, while he deceived himself with the idea that he was engaged upon a history; but it is rightly observed in the preface, that he has sacrificed no principle to palliate his hero, and he has rigorously examined, and fearlessly blamed him on all just occasions. But even supposing him to be not without a bias, it is at all events on the generous side; and if, in the contemplation of so brilliant and wonderful a character as that of Napoleon Buonaparte, he betrays a peculiar satisfaction in recognizing his nobler traits, this peculiarity may be advantageously opposed to the unworthy attempts of Sir Walter Scott to tarnish the glory of his greatest actions by a resuscitation of the most paltry libels, and the expression of a ready belief in every testimony, however slight, that is calculated to injure his memory as a man, a soldier, or a statesman. The

Life of Napoleon by the Scottish Novelist is not only more voluminous, but it must also be conceded, that it is more picturesque, and more lively and entertaining than the work before us; but it has too much the air of a romance, and is too diffuse in its style, and too irregular and illdigested in its details to be regarded as an historical composition. Though Mr. Hazlitt's previous habits as a writer did not seem favorable to that connected train of thought, and severe simplicity of expression, so requisite in a work of this nature, it cannot be denied that he has succeeded to admiration; and that this is not only his largest and last work but his best and most important one. He had previously distinguished himself as an essayist, a metaphysician, and a critic, and his final labours will stamp his reputation as a philosophical historian. His views in this work are original, profound, and just, and his style ardent, rapid and energetic. He rarely introduces those sparkling images and that radiant diction which glow so profusely in his other writings, but which would be inconsistent with the dignity of history. The only faults that we can find in this work are-first, the omission of all references to authorities, (a fault also to be found in Scott's;) secondly, a too frequent introduction of reflections which, however fine and forcible, interrupt the interest and continuity of the narrative; and thirdly, a violent prejudice against the French nation.

Sir Walter Scott characterizes Napoleon's proclamations as mere bombast, (because they are opposed to the dry, formal style adopted by ordinary monarchs,) but Mr. Hazlitt justly considers them brilliant specimens of Military Eloquence; and certainly their effect upon such vast masses of human beings as they were sometimes addressed to, is a better criterion of their merits than the criticism of any single individual. But Scott takes every opportunity of depreciating one of the greatest men of modern times, merely because he was a rankling thorn in the side of legitimacy, and seems on all occasions predetermined not to give him a single sous. He earnestly defends the conduct of Sir Hudson Lowe at St. Helena, and repeats his praise of General Gourgaud as a "loyal soldier," because instead of, like the rest of Napoleon's followers, taking part with his master against the governor, he acted as a spy, and after having been " very communicative" while on the Island, on his arrival in England hurried to the Foreign Office, and pretended to make a frank and full disclosure of everything that he had heard and seen during his residence with Napoleon. At such conduct as this, Sir Walter Scott, has not a word of indignation, but on the contrary affects to credit all this traitor's libels against his confiding and noble-minded master. He cannot conceal, however, from his reader the fact, that the General's conscience afterwards smote him for his base ingratitude, and that "he resumed that tenderness for Napoleon's memory, which may induce him to regret having communicated the secrets of the prison-house to less friendly ears." He takes care to add, that "this change of sentiment can neither diminish the truth of his evidence, nor affect our right to bring forward what we find recorded as communicated by him." As if this remorse were not in itself a strong argument against the truth of his former statements, though the sole circumstance of their coming from the lips of a be