e plants were then in full flower, and
innumerable honey-bees were feeding and buzzing. To one who, in early
life, had been accustomed to tread the heath-covered hills of
Scotland, the unexpected sight of these blooming plants of the
mountain was a treat; and the effect was heightened on seeing the bust
of Scotia's most admired bard, Thomson, adorning it. The inscription
was from that sublime, almost divine hymn, with which the Seasons
conclude, and eminently well applied to the heath, as some one or
other of the varieties blossom nearly all the year through.

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these,
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee.

In that secluded dell I bade a sorrowful and unwilling adieu to the
lady who had shown such extraordinary politeness. It may be worth the
while to mention that she was soon after married, much against the
wish of Mr. Penn, who had a great aversion to any changes in his
establishment; for a kinder, a better, a more pious, or more
accomplished gentleman than the late John Penn, of Stoke Park, England
could not boast.

* * * * *

In consequence of the extraordinary prices lately paid for the
autograph copies of Gray's poems, more particularly that of the Elegy,
it has been thought it would be acceptable to the readers of the
Magazine to be presented with a _fac simile_. The following have
therefore been traced, and engraved with great care and accuracy, from
the first and last stanzas of the Elegy, and the signature from a
letter. These will give an exact idea of the peculiarly neat and
elegant handwriting of the Poet of Stoke.

[Illustration: handwritten poem by Gray

The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day,
The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea,
The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way,
And leaves the World to Darkness & to me.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode,
(There they alike in trembling Hope repose)
The Bosom of his Father, & his God.

Your humble Serv^t T. Gray]

* * * * *

THE SAW-MILL.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

In yonder mill I rested,
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer.
And on the flowing brook.

As in a dream, before me,
The saw, with restless play,
Was cleaving through a fir-tree
Its long and steady way.

The tree th