THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW.

JOHN ALLEN WALKER.

OH! where are the eyes that once beam'd upon me?
And where are the friends I rejoiced once to see?
And where are the hearts that held amity's glow?
They are gone to the land which no mortal may know!

When shadows of midnight descend o'er the plain,
How drear is the path of the way-faring swain ;
Yet drearer and darker the road I must go,

Ere I rest in that land which no mortal may know !

Yet pilgrims who roam through the glooming of night,
Still hail the bright beams of the dawn-coming light;
And though the approach of the morning be slow,
Its hope-kindled ray seems to lessen their woe:

And thus when the tear-drop of sorrow I shed,
And bend me above the cold tomb of the dead,
A ray of the future diffuses its glow,

And I look to the land which no mortal may know.

SONG.

Old Border air-"My good Lord John."

THOMAS PRINGLE, BORN AT BLAIKLAW, ROXBURGHSHIRE, JANUARY 5, 1789, DIED IN LONDON, DECEMBER

5, 1834, BURIED IN BUNHILL FIELDS.

OUR native land-our native vale,—
long and last adieu ;—
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Cheviot-mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renown'd in song;
Farewell ye blithesome braes and meads,
Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell ye broomy elfin knowes

Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell ye hoary haunted howes
O'erhung with birk and sloe.

The battle mound-the Border tower
That Scotia's annals tell ;-

The martyr's grave-the lover's bower,

To each to all-farewell!

Home of our hearts !-our father's home

Land of the brave and free!

The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green island of our sires.

Our native land-our native vale,-
A long, a last adieu ;-
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,

And Scotland's mountains blue.

We copy the above touching little ballad from the album of a friend, where it was written by its author a few days before he left for the new colony at the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Pringle was the editor of the first volume of Blackwood's Magazine, as well as the first three volumes of Constable's new series of the Scot's Magazine. For several years he was editor of Friendship's Offering. He is also the author of a volume of poems, entitled the Autumnal Excursion, and of a series of African Sketches in prose and verse.--Literary Gazette.

THE GRAVE OF KORNER.

MRS. HEMANS (FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE), BORN IN LIVERPOOL, SEPTEMBER 25, 1793, DIED MAY 16, 1835, BURIED IN ST. ANNE'S CHURCH, DUBLIN.

GREEN wave the Oak for ever o'er thy rest!
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest !
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!

Rest, Bard! rest, Soldier ! -By the Father's hand!
Here shall the Child of after-years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand

In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and Bard !-For thou thy path hast trod
With Freedom and with God!

The Oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite!

On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, Aud with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight

Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er thee,

And the deep guns with rolling peals gave token, That Lyre and Sword were broken!

Thou hast a hero's tomb !-A lowlier bed

Is her's, the gentle girl, beside thee lying, The gentle girl that bow'd her fair young head, When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother! true friend! the tender and the brave! She pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others--but for her
To whom the wide earth held that only spot-
-She loved thee !-lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not!
Thou hast thine Oak-thy trophy--what hath she?
Her own blest place by thee.

It was thy spirit, Brother! which had made

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky! Ye were but two!—and when that spirit pass'd Woe for the one, the last!

Woe, yet, not long!-She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast;
Once, once again to see that buried face

But smile upon her ere she went to rest!
Too sad a smile !-its living light was o'er,
It answer'd hers no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;