tedious transit) found myself in an English meadow,-I exclaimed with the poet,

I felt

Thou art free

My country! and 'tis joy enough and pride

For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass

Of England once again.

my childhood for a time renewed, and was by no means disposed to second the assertion that

"Nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.

I have never beheld any thing more lovely than scenery characteristically English; and Goldsmith, who was something of a traveller, and had gazed on several beautiful countries, was justified in speaking with such affectionate admiration of our still more beautiful England,

Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride.

It is impossible to put into any form of words the faintest representation of that delightful summer feeling which is excited in fine weather by the sight of the mossy turf of our country. It is sweet indeed to go,

Musing through the lawny vale :

alluded to by Warton, or over Milton's "level downs," or to climb up Thomson's

Stupendous rocks

That from the sun-redoubling valley lift

Cool to the middle air their lawny tops.

It gives the Anglo-Indian Exile the heart-ache to think of these ramblings over English scenes.

ENGLAND.

Bengala's plains are richly green,
Her azure skies of dazzling sheen,
Her rivers vast, her forests grand,
Her bowers brilliant,-but the land,
Though dear to countless eyes it be,
And fair to mine, hath not for me
The charm ineffable of home;
For still I yearn to see the foam
Of wild waves on thy pebbled shore,
Dear Albion ! to ascend once more
Thy snow-white cliffs; to hear again
The murmur of thy circling main-

To stroll down each romantic dale
Beloved in boyhood-to inhale
Fresh life on green and breezy hills-
To trace the coy retreating rills-
To see the clouds at summer-tide
Dappling all the landscape wide-
To mark the varying gloom and glow

As the seasons come and go

Again the green meads to behold

Thick strewn with silvery gems and gold,

Where kine, bright-spotted, large, and sleek,
Browse silently, with aspect meek,

Or motionless, in shallow stream

Stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem,

Feet linked to feet, forbid to sever,

By some strange magic fixed for ever.

And oh once more I fain would see
(Here never seen) a poor man free,*
And valuing more an humble name,
But stainless, than a guilty fame.
How sacred is the simplest cot,
Where Freedom dwells !-where she is not
How mean the palace! Where's the spot
She loveth more than thy small isle,
Queen of the sea? Where hath her smile
So stirred man's inmost nature? Where
Are courage firm, and virtue fair,

* I allude here chiefly to the ryots of wealthy Zemindars and to other poor Hindu people in the service of their own countrymen. All the subjects of the British Crown, even in India, are politically free, but individually the poorer Hindus, (especially those who reside at a distance from large towns,) are unconscious of their rights, and even the wealthier classes have rarely indeed that proud and noble feeling of personal independence which characterizes people of all classes and conditions in England. The feeling with which even a Hindu of wealth and rank approaches a man in power is very different indeed from that of the poorest Englishman under similar circumstances. But national education will soon communicate to the natives of India a larger measure of true self-respect. It will not be long, I hope, before the Hindus will understand our favorite maxim of English law, that "Every man's house is his castle," —a maxim so finely amplified by Lord Chatham : "The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the Crown. It may be frail—its roof may shake—the wind may blow through it-the storm may enter-but the king of England cannot enter! -all his force dares not cross the threshold of the ruined tenement."

And manly pride, so often found

As in rude huts on English ground,
Where e'en the serf who slaves for hire

May kindle with a freeman's fire?

How proud a sight to English eyes
Are England's village families!
The patriarch, with his silver hair,
The matron grave, the maiden fair,
The rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad,
On Sabbath day all neatly clad :—
Methinks I see them wend their way
On some refulgent morn of May,
By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare,
Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!

I can love all lovely lands,

But England most; for she commands,
As if she bore a parent's part,
The dearest movements of my heart;
And here I may not breathe her name,
Without a thrill through all my frame.

Never shall this heart be cold

To thee, my country! till the mould
(Or thine or this) be o'er it spread,

And form its dark and silent bed.

I never think of bliss below

But thy sweet hills their green heads show,

Of love and beauty never dream,

But English faces round me gleam!

D. L. R.

I have often observed that children never wear a more charming aspect than when playing in fields and gardens. In another volume I have recorded some of my impressions respecting the prominent interest excited by these little flowers of humanity in an English landscape.

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

When I re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise. It was in the spring of the year. The blue vault of heaven-the clear atmosphere-the balmy vernal breeze-the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on luxuriant verdure, or standing

knee deep in a crystal lake-the hills sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a wandering cloudthe meadows glowing with golden butter-cups and be-dropped with daisies the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly—the sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden birdsthe white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human nests-the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire "pointing up to heaven," and its gilded vane gleaming in the light-the sturdy peasants with their instruments of healthy toil-the white-capped matrons bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like snow-patches on green slopes, or glossy garden shrubs-the sun-browned village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open casements, their faces in sweet keep ing with the trellised flowers:-all formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest imitative efforts of human art. But though the bare enumeration of the details of this English picture, will, perhaps, awaken many dear recollections in the reader's mind, I have omitted by far the most interesting feature of the whole scene-the rosy children, loitering about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm grass.*+

Two scraps of verse of a similar tendency shall follow this prose description:

AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.

I stood upon an English hill,

And saw the far meandering rill,

A vein of liquid silver, run

Sparkling in the summer sun;

While adown that green hill's side,

And along the valley wide,

* Literary Recreations.

+ I have in some moods preferred the paintings of our own Gainsborough even to those of Claude-and for this single reason, that the former gives a peculiar and more touching interest to his landscapes by the introduction of sweet groups of children. These lovely little figures are moreover so thoroughly English, and have such an out-of-doors air, and seem so much a part of external nature, that an Englishman who is a lover of rual scenery and a patriot, can hardly fail to be enchanted with the style of his celebrated countryman.-Literary Recreations.

ERRATA.-On the opposite page (16) 3rd verse-paragraph, insert a before the word parent's: read it thus:

As if she bore a parent's part.

Sheep, like small clouds touched with light, Or like little breakers bright.

Sprinkled o'er a smiling sea,

Seemed to float at liberty.

Scattered all around were seen,

White cots on the meadows green,
Open to the sky and breeze,

Or peeping through the sheltering trees,
On a light gate, loosely hung,
Laughing children gaily swung ;

Oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear,
Came upon the startled ear,
Blended with the tremulous bleat,

Of truant lambs, or voices sweet,

Of birds, that take us by surprise,

And mock the quickly searching eyes.

Nearer sat a fair-haired boy,
Whistling with a thoughtless joy ;

A shepherd's crook was in his hand,
Emblem of a mild command;

And upon his rounded cheek

Were hues that ripened apples streak.
Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing,
Touched that small Arcadian king;
His sinless subjects wandered free-
Confusion without anarchy,
Happier he upon his throne,
The breezy hill-though all alon e-
Than the grandest monarchs proud
Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.

On a gently rising ground,
The lovely valley's farthest bound,
Bordered by an ancient wood,
The cots in thicker clusters stood;
And a church uprose between,
Hallowing the peaceful scene.
Distance o'er its old walls threw,
A soft and dim cerulean hue,
While the sun-t gilded spire
Gleamed as with celestial fire!

I have crossed the ocean wave,
Haply for a foreign grave;
Haply never more to look,
On a British hill or brook;