He leaves the murmur of Ohio's flood,
And forward rushing in indignant grief,
Where never foot has trod the fallen leaf,
He bends his course where twilight reigns sublime.
O'er forests silent since the birth of time.

SCENES OF INFANCY.


In tracing the rise and progress of the Scottish Maroon war, we
must not omit to mention that years had rolled on, and that little
Harry Bertram, one of the hardiest and most lively children that
ever made a sword and grenadier's cap of rushes, now approached
his fifth revolving birthday. A hardihood of disposition, which
early developed itself, made him already a little wanderer; he was
well acquainted with every patch of lea ground and dingle around
Ellangowan, and could tell in his broken language upon what baulks
grew the bonniest flowers, and what copse had the ripest nuts. He
repeatedly terrified his attendants by clambering about the ruins
of the old castle, and had more than once made a stolen excursion
as far as the gipsy hamlet.

On these occasions he was generally brought back by Meg Merrilies,
who, though she could not be prevailed upon to enter the Place of
Ellangowan after her nephew had been given up to the press-gang,
did not apparently extend her resentment to the child. On the
contrary, she often contrived to waylay him in his walks, sing him
a gipsy song, give him a ride upon her jackass, and thrust into
his pocket a piece of gingerbread or a red-cheeked apple. This
woman's ancient attachment to the family, repelled and checked in