shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the Child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and he fell upon the ground; and Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said—" Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?" The Shape arose and answered-"O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

By Charles Lamb, Esq.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care—
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have" written strange defeature" there.

And time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates-he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs

Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot

And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began-but finish'd not.

And fruitless late remorse doth trace-
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers-sense unknit-
Huge reams of folly-shreds of wit-
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook,
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look.

Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book !—

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF ZOAR,

COAST OF ARABIA.

A SCENE of Araby !—but not the blest ;—
Behold a multitude of mountains wild
And bare and cloudless to the skies up-piled
In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest

Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none;
Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest,
Burning and whitening in the ardent sun.
Amid the crags-her undisputed reign-
Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles,
And half the horror of her state beguiles,
To see her empire spreading to the plain;
For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray,

Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain,

And haste, as from the vale of Death, away!

AN AGED WIDOW'S OWN WORDS. Versified by James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd.

O is he gane my good auld man?
And am I left forlorn?

And is that manly heart at rest,
The kindest e'er was born?

We've sojourned here through hope and fear

For fifty years and three,

And ne'er in all that happy time,

Said he harsh word to me.

And mony a braw and boardly son
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.

I dinna greet the day to see
That he to them has gane,
But O 'tis fearfu' thus to be

Left in a world alane.

Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,

Whose race of joy is run,

And scarce has little opening left,
For aught aneath the sun.

My life nor death I winna crave,
Nor fret nor yet despond,

But a' my hope is in the grave
And the dear hame beyond.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

My Lilla gave me yester morn
A rose methinks in Eden born,
And as she gave it, little elf,

Blushed like another rose herself.
Then said I, full of tenderness,

"Since this sweet rose I owe to you,

"Dear girl, why may I not possess

"The lovelier rose that gave it too?"