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THE EXAMINER.

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[The following fine ode to the Mocking Birdis by a correspondent of the Louisville (U.S.) Journal. Poetry, as well as empire, seems ‘ westward’ to ‘take its way.’ The Carey’s, ‘Amelia,’ the ‘ Two Sisters of the West,’ Mrs. Nichols, and many others who have recently won reputations beyond the Alleghanies, are founding a poetical literature, rich, and various, and peculiar, that will be quotable inthe next ages. We may add to the list the American Anacreon, ‘ Harry Barry,’ and the au- thor of this fine piece which follows.—Will any one tell us who he is ?]

TO THE MOCKING BIRD. Bird‘of the wild and wondrous song, I hear thy rich.and varied voice, Swelling the greenwood depths among, Till hill and vale the while rejoice! Spell-bound, entranced in rapture’s chain, , [list to that inspiring strain! I tread the forest’s.tangled maze

The thousand choristers-to see, Who mingled thus their voices raise,

In that delicious minstrelsy ; I-search in vain each pause between— The choral band is still unseen.

"Tis but the music of a dream—

An airy sound that mocks the ear— But hark again! the eagle’s scream,

It rose and fell distinct and clear! And list—in yonder hawthorn bush, The red bird, robin, and the thrush! Lost in amaze, I look around,

Nor thrush, nor eagle there behold— But still that rich, wrial sound,

Like some forgotten song of old, That o’er the heart Jias held control, Falls.sweetly.on the ravished soul!

And yet:the woods are vocal still— The air is musical with song— O’er the near stream—above the hi]— The wildering notes are borne along! But whence that gush of rare delight ? And where art thou ? or bird or sprite ? Perch’d on yon maple’s topmost bough, With glancing wings and restless feet, _ Bird of untiring throat, art thou Sole songster in this concert sweet! So perfect, full, and rich, each part, It mocks the highest reach of art!;

Once more, once more, that thrilling strain? - lil-omen’d ow], be mute, be mute! Thy native tones I hear again,

More sweet than harp or lover’s lute; Compared with thy impassioned tale, How cold, how lame, the nightingale! Alas! capricious in thy pawer—

Thy ‘ wood note wild’ again is fled— The mimic rules the changeful hour,

And all the ‘soul of song’ is dead! : But no—to every borrow’d tone,

He lends a sweetness all his-own!

Gn glittering wing, erect.and bright, With arrowy speed he darts aloft, As tho’ his soul had ta’en its flight, In that last strain so sad and soft, And we would call it back to life. ‘To mingle in the mimic strife! And ever, to each fitful lay His frame in restless motion wheels, As tho” he would, indeed, essay To act the ecstacy he feels— As though his very feet kept time ‘To that inimitable chime!

And ever, as the rising moon Climbs with full or:the trees above, He sings his most enchanting tune, While echo wakes through all the grove; His descant soothes, in care’s despite, The weary watches of the night; ‘The sleeper from his couch starts up- To listen to that lay.forlorn— And he who quafis the midnight. cup Looks: out to see the purpling morn! ©! ever in the merry spring Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing!

STRANGE STORY BY A. STUDENT. {Communicated by Isaac Webster, Esq., L. L. D.]

SHOWING HOW HE PROPOSES TO PAY A VISIT HOME, AND WHAT. BEFEL. HIM ON. HIS WAY. ‘ » £ Bd B x s

I had just caughte glimpse,ofthem Walking down the college square, arm in arm, and | wondered why they ahould not:immediately have called upen me, especially ao-they.passed*close to my chambers, [I was-about to run-ovtiand hail them, but recollecting that I was neither

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satisfied that they would certainly come to see me, and in the meantime [ took up the letter which lay still un- opened upon the table, and read as follows: ‘My pear Cuapwicx—My father is a good deal concerned not to have heard from you for such a length of time. It is now three months since you wrote to us —a circumstance quite unusual in one possessed of those regular and studious habits for which you have always been so remarkable. He hopes you will pay attention to your health, and not overwork yourseif. There is nothing new in this part of the country, unless the departure for America of your two-former school-fellows, James Nugent and William Rafter, both of whom sailed for Upper Canada on last Tuesday morning. A few of their friends, myself among the number, accompanied them to the sea-port, and actually. saw their vessel ex- pand her sails to cross the broad bosom of the Atlantic. Their cousin, Tom Sleator—for you know he stands in that relation to them both—is. also preparing to go, and on next Friday an auction of all his goods and furniture is to take place at his house. He sends his most affec- tionate regards to you, and, as he never expects to see you in-this.world, he bids you farewell for ever, but trusts to meet you in a-better one. He-says: he would be glad to see you once if he could—but as. he knows that that is out of the question he does not expect it.

Enclosed you have a ten pound note, which my father sends, lest you might feel any way cramped in your circumstances. As for ourselves: we are all well. My father had a. slight touch of rheumatism last week—but itis gone. My mother joins him in begging that you will take care of your health, and above all things, net study toomuch.

I am, my dear Chadwick, your ever affectionate bro- ther, ALEXANDER GRAHAM;

‘I felt great compassion for my poor brother, in con- sequence of the delusions to which, unhappily, I and his whole family knew he had been occasionally subject. For instance, his account of the departure of James Nugent and William Rafter to America I felt to be one of them—I myself having seen them both only a few minutes before, walking arm in» arm down the college square. At all events I lost no time in shaving and dressing; after wMich I sallied out, and’ on arriving at the college entranee, I was just in time to catch a

morland street.

*T paused, and felt hurt that they should both be so near my chambers and declined coming to-see me, es- pecially as they. knew my number. However, aftera couple of minutes’ hesitation, I followed them to: West- morland street, but in consequence of the delay caused by it, Icould neither come up with nor discover any trace of them whatever. Still [felt for my poor brother, because I feared that their presence in Dublin was an incidental corroboration of my apprehensions lest he might relapse into these delusions which induced him to imagine so many strange things-that had existence-no where but in his own brain

‘ As for Tom Sleator, however, I know myself that he and his family had made up their minds to follow my. brother Edward to America, where he was advancing rapidly into wealth and independence, and it struck me that by a short visit/home [could satisfy myself upon many points—for instance, upon the appearance of Nugent and Rafter in Dublin, who were stated to have been on their way to Upper Canada, and, what was of more concern to me, upon the condition of my dear and affectionate brother Alick.

* Having taken all these points into consideration, and feeling myself fortified besides by the ten pound note, I resolved to start by the Belfast coach the next morn- ing, and accordingly-at half-past seven I found myself an inside passenger, and on my way to Black Park House, the residence ofmy father.. It was called Black Park House in consequence of ™ th i where the spectre was in the habit of appearing.

[Here there is an obliteration in the M.S., which ap- pears purposely blotted out, as ifthe had felt regret at having detailed the circumstances, whatever they may have. been. |

‘On reaching the town of . ° *, the nearest point, in fact, at which it touched in the diree- tion ef my. father’s house, the distance being ten miles by the shortest road, which went across the mountains, I felt so anxious to reach home that I preferred the latter, wild ard gloomy though it was, to the better but more circuitous one, which would have brought me through the inhabited country. The season was about the beginning of March, the night was telerably calm, but ever and anon there would rise that moaning breeze which passes solemnly along, like the voice of lamenta- tion, and which dies away in-something between a pro- longed sob-and a sigh. The light of the moon, too, was dim and ghastly, and shed a wild and spectral character upon every prominent object around me. For my own part, I rather enjoyed the feeling of romance occasioned by.this, and as-I proceeded through the dismal solitudes, I amused myself by trying to turn the trees or other objects into such fantastic shapes as pretty strong powers of comparison syggested to my imagination. This kind of fearful enjoyment increased upon me so much, that I began.to feel as if, among so many grotesque and super- natural-looking shapes, it was impossible that } could be actually alone,

‘In this: way I’proceeded for a distance of about five miles;, when I’ remembered that there was a kind of

glimpse of them-turning at the outer gate towards West-

even in day light, but still such as I imagined my ea:} sporting habits had made me sufficiently eae with—that went in a more direct line across the —until it came out on the great road which passed With in a couple of hundred yards of my father’s house,

‘I had, with my characteristic want of reflection, for- gotten to consider how long the light of the moon Could be depended upon on the night in question, but in point of fact, I deemed it next to an impossibility that | could mistake the path with which my feet had, to use a com. mon phrase, been so intimately acquainted,

‘ The turn from the mountain road along which I way. proceeding, to the path in question, was at the head of a little glen, the sides-of which were covered with that description of underwood peculiar to mountain glens and dells. The sides of it were thickly tangled with hawthorn, dogberry, mountainash, and holly, and along the bottom ran a prattiing little stream, whose banks. were fringed with the varieties we have just described which in many places: met’ across it, so that it conse. quently peeped out only occasionally, whilst winding oe this romantic little spot of lonely but picturesque

eauty.

‘One side of it was now in: deep-and j shadow, whilst the other lay in that dim and indistinctness that lends such an inexpressible feeling of terror and delight to such scenery, when viewed in. solitude at' such an hour.

‘On taking the path across the head of this glen, felt still in that mood of imagination which gives peeuliar shapes and life to everything that meets the eye under such circumstances. A mournful breeze came up slowly from the glen,.and as I’ advanced I'thought I perceived: a tall, supernatural being waving a long arm in an ad- monitory manner, as ifto warnme from taking that path. I felt no terror, so to speak, for I knew that the object before me was a bush set in motion by the breeze; but F experienced a wild kind of excitement, which was not. without pleasure, nor wholly without pain.

‘Thad left the mountain: road, and was now beyond the object which seemed to have warned me back, when,. just at my very ear, I thought I heard the word ‘ Chad- wick’—my own name—pronounced with something like distinctness, yet not in sucha manner as to render the fact of its pronunciation certain. It might have been. my name, or it’ might’ have been some sound which the power of my imagination had shaped into it, just as it. had given to the visible objects, that presented: them- selves-to me, wild and fantastic forms as I went along.

than anything I had seen during that part of the moun- tain journey which I had yet passed.

‘I‘now became far more observant ofthe sound than of the sights-above me; but having gained an elevation

lay in front; [ felt considerably relieved, as even in the struggling light I was able to recognise its undulations, and thought I could discern in the dim and uncertain distance the top of the mountain that overshadowed Black Park House. LT'accordingly proceeded with fresh confidence, and had got about: a mile into the dark ex- panses before me, still'satisfied that I was on the proper path—as, indeed, was the case—when I found that the little light that had hitherto been:so friendly to me, was

gradually fading away—the moon, in fact, being upon ar pointofsetting behind the mountains that rose tomy e

‘I now felt the full force of my folly in having, for the

sake of saving a couple of miles, departed from the safe

mountain road, and had thoughts of retracing my steps,

when behold, the light had completely disappeared, and

I found myself alone upon the wild waste, and in utter darkness. I would, however, have still returned, were it not for the dread of missing my way. The glen I had passed was, on the the side next me, precipitous in many

places, and I knew not but'in sue!» palpable darkness I

might have walked over one of its-beetling cliffs. I determined, therefore, let what might happen, to pro- ceed with as-much accuracy. as possible in the direction

of home, certain that there was less risk in traversing

the undulations of the moor than in encountering the

danger of the precipices behind me.

‘Il soon found, however, what it is to walk, along the

expanses-of a mountain solitude in pitehy darkness. In. the course of a few minutes I had lost my path, and in a

very brief period afterwards became conscious that I was

completely, and in every possible sense astray. It is

impossible to describe the terrors which now crowded

some place at night, and out of the reach of human aid, will understand what I felt The sensation is one of peculiar horror, combining as it does, a frightful appre- hension of personal danger, mingled with a vague but painful dread of something that is more than natural— or, at all events, of something that it fears but. cannot define. All sense of my relative position was at once lost, and I knew not in what direction I was proceeding. ‘In this painful position I called aloud for aid, ex- claiming, in my. loudest voice—

‘*Help, if there is. any one within. hearing; I em 2 traveller who has lost his way !’

‘This I repeated at the top of my lungs-several times, when at last [heard once more, just at, or rather inte my ear, the word ‘ Chadwick!” firmly, and ag-I was new certain, distinetly pronounced.

‘* Who speaks? I shouted; ‘in God's names, WRe Se

seavee : nex, dressed; Udeemed it: better to. wait. a little, broken pathway, sometimes distinct, ang sometimes: not, ‘what is-near se?

4

This little incident; however, shook my fortitude more-

that commanded a view of the wide and dreary moor that:

upon me, Any. person who has lost his way in a lone-.