[The sad story of the Earl of Derwentwater, executed in 1716 for participation in the rebellion of the previous year, is well known. The beautiful lake from which he derives his title is surrounded by some of the grandest scenery in England. Few persons will need to be reminded of the beauty of the small cataract of Ladore. The memory of the misfortunes of Lord Derwentwater, and of the beauty of his disconsolate countess, is is still preserved in the traditions of the neighbourhood.]

Sweet lake of the moun-tains how happy was I,

When life’s sunny morn had no cloud on its sky,

And I roam’d with my love on thy beautiful shore,

To hear the deep music that gush’d from Ladore!

We sail’d on thy waters rejoicing, alone,

Or trod thy green islands, and call’d them our own,

And built, ’mid the hills that encircle thy breast

A bower and a home in the wilds of the West.

But sorrow has darken’d the noon of our day,

And peril and doubt have encompass’d our way;

My heart’s only love in captivity lies,

And thy glory, O Derwent, is dimm’d in mine eyes.

Sad lake of the mountains, through dangers I roam,

With a pang in my heart and a blight on my home,

To dream of the joys that shall bless me no more,

And mingle my sighs with the moan of Ladore.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, October, 1852. No. 4.

SONNET:—TO THE REDBREAST.

When that the fields put on their gay attire,

Thou silent sitt’st near brake or river’s brim,

Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim;

But when pale Winter lights the social fire,

And meads with slime are spent, and ways with mire,

Thou charm’st us with thy soft and solemn hymn,

From battlement or barn, or hay-stack trim;

And now not seldom tun’st, as if for hire.

Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch

The pittance due to thy well-warbled song:

Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,

Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,

And oft for entrance ’neath the peaceful thatch,

Paid the cheap tribute of a simple song.