and wisdom, to make the knowledge he imparts to his pupils not so much an end in itself, as a means to the development of their mental powers. As a proof of Mr Robertson's wisdom, he did not seek to rush prematurely into print, yet before matriculating in the University he had the honour of being recognised as a worthy member of the society of poets by his first poem appearing in the Scotsman. He is indebted to the genial editor of the People's Friend-Mr David Pae-for his introduction to periodical literature, and he has been a valued contributor to Blackwood, Good Words, the Graphic, and the Atlantic Monthly. Mr Robertson has shown us in his poems and sonnets that he has been an intelligent and appreciative traveller, and has found Nature in various countries instinct with poetic suggestions. His tours have included the greater part of Scotland, the English Lakes, Norway-the last being described in a series of beautiful "Norwegian Sonnets" in his volume "Orellana, and other Poems," published by Blackwood in 1881-while he sings in the expressive mother tongue of "a snawy nicht-cap upon Benarty's pow," or bewails the loss the cottar has sustained in so many places in losing his little bit croft— "Oh, wae the day the puir man tint it, His cot an' pendicle ahint it; Tho' short his bounds an' sma' his gain, In a poetical preface to his first volume, "Poems," (1878) he says Splendid I know are the garlands That others more tastefully twine, Sacred to Fame, To be hung in the sounding dome Own'd by the Nine : And I who have been to the far lands, The lands of the myrtle and vine, In the gardens of Greece and of Rome, And dreamed through our gardens at home, Am bold to present you with mine. Many of the poems in "Orellana" appeared anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine, the first instalment, entitled "From the Sicilian of Vicortai," attracting a good deal of attention that was very flattering to Signor Vicortai, and certainly very satisfactory to the translator. One London paper credited Sir Theodore Martin with the translation, and others alluded very complacently to "the well-known poet Vicortai." Critics of greater shrewedness saw traces of Swinburne, Poe, and Heine's influence in these Sicilian "Translations," while one individual called our poet's attention to them, assuring him that they had given one literary club great pleasure, and he felt certain they would prove a great treat to Mr Robertson. On the secret of authorship oozing out, the former, who knew Italian, asked the translator for a book of the poems in the original, as he had been unable to beg or buy a copy. We have only to add that considerable surprise was caused on its becoming known that the subject of our sketch was Vicortai. He had for a little amusement to himself followed Scott's and Mrs Browning's occasional device, only he had given 66 a name,' as well as 66 'a local habitation" to his poet. The epic poem which gives the book its title is one of great ability, and one to which mere selections cannot do justice. It gives glowing descriptions and powerful dramatic scenes, while the narrative parts of the poem are exceedingly well sustained, and the whole proves the author to be gifted with the imaginative faculty in a high degree. Without stint he draws at will a wealth of phrase when engaged on descriptions of human passions, catastrophies, and intrigues, and his stock of epithets is not exhausted in merely telling us that the leaves are green, the sky blue, the plains rich, and the hills clothed with wood. The miscellaneous poems and songs in both volumes are varied in subject, and the language and form has been pronounced as being as pleasantly variegated as a flowery bank in June. Whether it is a stinging satire, a sacred hymn, a melodious anacreontic, or a Scottish poem or song, the poet never loses control of what he has in hand. We find no spasmodic gaspings after an inexplicable and inexpressible something which is too frequently considered to be the true sign of a heaven-born bard. He is a lyrical poet of a very high order, and his songs possess a strikingly charming freshness and melody. Many of his sketches in a poem "On the Decadence of the Scots Language, Manners, and Customs are vivid enough to be transferred to canvas. Back-lying farms, forlorn and grey hill slopes, are amongst its fine realisms, and the whole poem is an eloquent defence of our norlan' speech and norlan' ways, and recalls old times, customs, and sketches with excellent humour simple stories of rural life. Indeed, not a few of Mr Robertson's poems and songs are sure to become standard, and will be received with much favour at public readings. Altogether he is a poet of great promise. A bright imagination, and trained and gifted poetic mind, illuminates and beautifies whatever it touches. We feel satisfied that he sings for the best of all reasons that he cannot help it. His verse comes up like a clear spring of water; it has all the gracefulness of natural ease. Mr Robertson will take a very high place in national literature. A BACK-LYING FARM. A back-lying farm but lately taken in ; Forlorn hill-slopes and grey, without a tree; Through which there creeps, too small to make a din, A stream, unvisited of bird or bee, Its flowerless banks a bare sad sight to see. Singing unheard, while with unlifted brow She twined the long wan grasses in her hat. HORACE IN HOGGERS. Fra whaur ye hing, my cauldrife frien', An' snaw upo' the auld gean stump The pump that half the toon's folk ser'd, An' rouch, I ken, shall be yer baird Come, reenge the ribs, an' let the heat An' since o' water we are scant, -We've simmer in oor veins ! The pooers o' Nature, wind an snaw, But, while we scoog them, let them blaw, An' sae wi' Fortune's blasts, my frien', But we can scoog ahint a screen An' jouk their fury still. Then happy ilka day that comes, An' glorious ilka nicht, The present disna fash oor thumbs, The future needna fricht. THE DECADENCE OF THE SCOTS LANGUAGE, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS. The gude auld honest mither tongue! They kent nae ither, auld or young; The cottar spak' it in his yaird, An' on his rigs the gawcie laird. Weel could it a' oor wants express, Was sweet to hear in sacred psalm When auld gudeman, on bended knees, 'Twas gentler at a hushaba 'Twas sweet at a' times i' the mooth 'Twas mair sonorous than the Latin, But if the poopit's sacred clangour Was something aw'some in its anger, Gude keep my Southlan' freen's fra' hearin' But wha wad hae audacity The mither croon'd by cradle side, In gude braid Scots : -A language still! An' like the shimmerin' spunkie strays It lives for aye in Allan's play, |