storm
sufficient to have shattered the universe, must have swept them all
away, ere I looked upon that dreary assemblage of rocks which seems
like the _ruins of a world_. I ascended from the Capel Cerig side of
the mountain, and therefore venture not to say what may be the aspect
of the Llanberries; but the only verdure I beheld, was that of short,
brown heathy grass, a few stunted furze-bushes, and patches of that
vividly green moss, which is spongy and full of water. The only living
inhabitants of these wilds were a few ruffian-like miners, two or
three black slugs, and a scanty flock of straggling half-starved
mountain sheep, with their brown, ropy coats. The guide told me, that
even _eagles_, had for three centuries abandoned the desolate crags
of Snowdon; and as for its being a haunt for _owls_, neither bird nor
mouse could reside there to supply such with subsistence. Snowdon
appeared to me too swampy to be drained for cultivation in many parts,
and in most others its marble, granite and shingles, forbade the idea
of spontaneous vegetation. I am sorry for the poets, having a sincere
regard for the fraternity, but Snowdon is not adorned with pines,
firs, larches, and service-trees, like parts of the Alps; it is _not_
wooded like the romantic Pyrenees, nor luxuriantly fertile in fruits,
flowers, and grain, like the terrible, but sylvan Etna.

M.L.B.

* * * * *

OLD POETS

* * * * *

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.

["A Lover of Old English Poetry," has, in the last _London Magazine_,
a short paper on DRUMMOND of HAWTHORNDEN, a name dear to every
poetical mind, and every lover of early song. His intention, he says,
is "rather to excite than satiate" the taste of his readers for the
poetry of Drummond,--an object in which we cordially agree, and would
contribute our offering, had not the task, in the present instance,
been already so ably performed. We cannot, therefore, do better than
introduce to our readers a few of his judicious selections. They are
exquisite specimens of the evergreen freshness of old poetry, and by
their contrast with contemporary effusions will contribute to the
mosaic of our sheet. By the way, we hear of a sprinkling of the
antique world of letters in some of the "Annuals"--an introduction
which reflects high credit on the taste of the editors, and serves
to prove that sicklied sentimentalities, like all other sweets, whe