Hearest thou the bugle-horn? Hear'st it sound,
Strong in calling, through field and grove?
Oh, upon the spirited steed to leap,
To attach myself to the joyous chace!
No more! O the well-known voices,—
Painfully full of sweet recollection.
Oft do mine ear perceive them with joys,
On the mountainous heights of the Highlands,
When the roaring chace resounded.

J. G. N.

RECOLLECTIONS.-NO. 5.

DONALD MC’OLLISTER.

He bore the name of his father, who was named for his grand-father, who was named for his great grand-father, who was a native of Caledonia.

Donald Mc'Ollister was the tallest boy in our school, and would have been the first scholar, had it not been for that restless imagination which was ever carrying him away from present and rational things to the Utopian world of fantasy.

Day after day, he would sit in school, resting his head on one hand, and with the other mechanically turning over the leaves of his book, on which his eyes were constantly fixed, with a look of utter abstraction. He seemed to be studying, for he kept his lips moving; 'twas no such thing --he was muttering something from Shakespeare, or Byron, or Ossian-something in unison with his thoughts, which were ever wandering in lonely and desolate places. "Who were his friends in youth? The midnight fireThe silent moon-beam, and the starry choir."

No one of Mr.'s pupils could learn a difficult or long lesson more expeditiously than Donald, when he was in the conning mood.-No one could converse with more sprightliness, variety, and originality than he, when he was not in a reverie: and no one was more immoveably stupid, when he was thinking intently.

One sultry morning, as we sat languidly poring over our books, we were aroused by a shrill whistle in the boy's room, which was separated from ours by folding-doors.— Mr. -went thither immediately, and as he opened the door, Donald, who was already apprised by the ill-suppressed titters of his companions, that he had done something 'out of the way,' rose from his seat, while the blood mounted to his brow, with a most deprecating 'I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of something so intently, that I did not remember where I was.'--All traces of displeasure had instantly vanished from the teacher's countenance, for he knew his pupils' eccentricities; and although he was sternly severe to the wilful transgressor, he was ever merciful to the penitent. When the school was dismissed, the boys surrounded Donald and insisted on knowing why he had obtruded upon them such an irrelevant display of his musical powers-with the utmost reluctance, he acknowledged to them that he imagined himself wandering in a deep forest, (the same in which he was lost when a child; when the old house dog, Keeper, found him and brought him home, after an absence of two days;) the tempest howled, and the hail rattled among the old trees; and hearing the cry of a Catamount, he involuntarily whistled to Keeper, who had run on before him.'

Donald might have been spoiled by maternal indulgence, for he was the only son of his mother, and she a widow,' -his personal resemblance to his father, who was a poet, as was also Donald, prevented her seeing his faults, and disposed her to indulge all his caprices; so that he grew up, or came up' according to the fashion of his natural make' wayward and reckless. About half way to the summit of May-flower Hill, there is a tall white cliff; one side of it is so sloping, that it is easily climbed; and it is delightful to sit there in the summer morning among the branches of the great walnut tree which overhangs it, and trace the little river in its windings through the village below. It was thither that Donald Mc'Ollister used to go (as his sister assured me) in the winter as well as the summer midnight, to sit on that high rock, when the moon was up, and the stars were bright, to hear the night-breeze sigh through those old trees, to gaze upon that still landscape! To fancy he saw unearthly forms gliding around the green burying

he was deHe could fight,

yard and so constant was this practice of his, that in after times, when he had become less visionary, he sometimes in the dead of night found himself returning to his room, having been out in his sleep, he knew not whither. He was the devoted friend of the suffering Greeks, where the struggle for freedom was then in its commencement: and all that he could possibly command, (it might be much, or it might be little-no matter-it was all) he gave freely, and wished it was thousands. Whatever his hand could find to do for them, he did with all his might.' Once I heard him say (the tears started into his eyes) that termined to enlist in the cause of liberty.' and he could die; he would be glad to die for beloved, classic Greece,' and then Albert Doane, who had assumed a very lofty air since he went to West Point, reminded him 'that Greece wanted money: not men;' which remark effectually silenced him; for though he had the heart of a prince,' he had not a prince's wealth. Donald Mc'Ollister was poor, as he was noble; for his guardian, who was aware of his generous disposition, and also that his property was barely sufficient for his education, allowed him less spending money for one term, than would now be thought necessary for 'a lection.'

I should gladly transcribe the whole poem (on Grecian suffering and emancipation) that gained Donald the first prize a neatly bound, duodecimo, Homer's Illiad. This was his last term at B school: the next week he was to go to the university.

On the morning of his departure, most of the pupils were assembled in the school-room before Mr. had come, he begged the driver to stop the stage coach a moment; hastily sprang out, and with a smiling face, and his very best bow, ejaculated a 'good morning,' to us, (he could not for his life have spoken another word) and disappeared in the coach, which was out of sight before the dancers had time to follow him with their farewell's and good wishes. The poetry of motion,' was, however, ended for a time; all sat down to talk of their lost school-fellow, and some who would have chosen to look careless, turned away to dry their eyes.

And so he left us, the gladsome school-boy; his heart swelling with proud hopes; but-thereby hangs a tale.'

The days of our youth are like the sleep of the hunter upon the hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun, but he awakes amid a storm. The red lightning flies around-the trees shake their heads to the wind. He looks back with joy to the day of his youth, and the pleasant dreams of his rest.'

CHAPTER 2.

"What became of" Donald Mc' Ollister.

There is but one thing which may be permanently relied on to guide a warm-hearted youth from the paths of the destroyers. It is religious principle. An honest determination of the heart to know and do what is right, combined with a humble trust in him by whose aid alone we may walk securely. Had Donald Mc'Ollister been a christian, the whole aspect of his life had been changed. Then he would not have been a slave to feeling and to imagination; but he would have been more cheerful, more studious, and more distinguished for his acquirements; and moreover, "discretion would have preserved him, and understanding kept him" from the haunts of gaming and intemperance, into which he was gradually decoyed-(not that he loved such places, but he did like those who frequented them, and he had not the resolution to withstand their unremitting solicitations ;) and which, in his third year, occasioned his expulsion from the university; a disgrace, which was long deferred in the hope that he might be induced to renounce his habits of dissipation, and apply himself resolutely to his studies. Had that hope been realized, he would have been an ornament to that ancient and honourable institution, for whenever he chose to direct the whole wonderful powers of his mind to the object of intellectual pursuit, he left all his class-mates behind; but the most stupid of those whose " one talent" was not, as yet, discovered, passed on before him when he was indisposed to application.

Donald was too much mortified by his dismissal, to return immediately home, and bear the evil tidings to his mother and his stern guardian, and so, until report should carry the news to them, and they should recover from the shock, and begin to feel anxious for his return, he conclu

ded to "visit about " among his fifteenth cousins, who received their favorite very kindly, condoled and sympathized with him, and vied with each other which should most flatter" the infant doll of twenty years and upwards," for he had idled away nearly all his teens in preparing for college they danced, read novels, played cards and sonatinos, took rides and walks, until Donald had nearly forgotten his disgrace in a prolonged stay of three weeks, when on being questioned by an aged relative of the ladies to which he intended to pay his devoirs, he suddenly recollected himself, took leave of them, and sought his home.

It was on a beautiful evening that he arrived. He met several villagers, who regarded him earnestly without speaking. They have heard that I am expelled," thought he. "For the first time, I seek my mother reluctantly. I tremble to encounter her kind, but sorrowful eye. There is the house,-how those old elms frown upon me-my mother is not in the garden. How unusual to see the front blinds closed, so fine an evening,-I fear she is ill." He rapped gently at the door, all his apprehensions for his mother's health being confirmed by the dingy appearance of the knocker, which was wont to gleam like a meteor. "Mercy is mad," thought he, as on his second knock, the old housekeeper looked out through the blind and then drew back and awaited his third, when she slowly unlocked and opened the door, wiping her eyes with the corner of her white apron."Pray, Miss Mercy, what has happened? can't you speak? Is mother sick? Is she," said he, as his eye caught the black ribbon which suspended the blue and red one that she had worn on her cap ever since his remembrance. "Is she "-dead, he would have added, but he could not speak it. Miss Mercy answered only by a burst of tears. He darted by her and ran into the parlour. It was darkened. It was untenanted, and damp, and chilly. The awful reality broke upon his mind-she was, indeed, no more. He flung himself upon the carpet-burried his face in his hands, and sobbed convulsively, without weeping, a long time, apparently insensible to every thing, but his mother's death; not even inquiring how it happened. Vainly the housekeeper and the cook addressed him in kind tones of commisseration. He heard them not, nor was it until Mr. Dow, his guardian, who had been in search