Send forth mysterious melody to greet The gracious pressure of immaculate feet? Did viewless seraphs rustle all around, Making sweet music out of air as sweet? Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

[BERNARD BARTON. 1784-1849.]

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

FAIR flower, that shunn'st the glare of day,

Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold, To evening's hues of sober grey Thy cup of paly gold ;

Be thine the offering owing long

To thee, and to this pensive hour
Of one brief tributary song,
Though transient as thy flower.

I love to watch at silent eve,

Thy scattered blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive

The influence of that sight.

I love at such an hour to mark

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill,

And shine, mid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while, When cares and griefs the breast invade,

Is friendship's animating smile

In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears,
And bears the sinking spirit up
Amid its chilling fears.

But still more animating far,

If meek Religion's eye may trace, Even in thy glimm'ring earth-born star, The holier hope of Grace.

The hope that as thy beauteous bloom
Expands to glad the close of day,
So through the shadows of the tomb
May break forth Mercy's ray.

[JOANNA BAILLIE. 1762-1851.]

THE CHOUGH AND CROW. THE Chough and Crow to roost are goneThe owl sits on the tree

The hush'd winds wail with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.

The wild fire dances o'er the fen-
The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos'd is ev'ry flower;
And winking tapers faintly peep,
High from my lady's bower.
Bewilder'd hind with shorten'd ken,
Shrink on their murky way:
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.

Nor board, nor garner own we now,
Nor roof, nor latched door,
Nor kind mate bound by holy vow
To bless a good man's store.
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,

And night is grown our day :
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
And use it as we may.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD.
THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,

And Colley in my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
I hear no welcome sound,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din,

And Luckey scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh, no! sad and slow !
These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,
A snood of bonny blue,

And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow!

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The time it winna pass:
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether'd on the grass.

O, now I see her on the way,

She's past the witches' knowe,
She's climbing up the brownie's brae;
My heart is in a lowe.

Oh, no! 'tis not so!
'Tis glamrie I ha'e seen!
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

[THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. 1780-1860.]

DOMESTIC LOVE.

O! LOVE of loves !-to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key. Thine are the joyous hours of winter's

even,

When the babes cling around their father's knee;

And thine the voice, that, on the midnight sea,

Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, [to see. Peopling the gloom with all he longs Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come

And on its altar closed-forever closed thy plume.

CUPID CARRYING PROVISIONS.

THERE was once a gentle time
When the world was in its prime ;
And every day was holiday,
And every month was lovely May.

Cupid then had but to go

With his purple wings and bow;
And in blossomed vale and grove
Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow;
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither,
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid's come,
With a brow of care and gloom :
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

Oh, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime !

[W. SMYTH. 1766-1849]
THE SOLDIER.

WHAT dreaming drone was ever blest,
By thinking of the morrow?
To-day be mine-I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow;
Give me the mind that mocks at care,
The heart, its own defender;
The spirits that are light as air,
And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe-to arms-to armsWe meet 'tis death or glory; 'Tis victory in all her charms,

Or fame in Britain's story;

Dear native land! thy fortunes frown, And ruffians would enslave thee; Thou land of honour and renown,

Who would not die to save thee?

'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases
In battle with the brave to fall,
Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow-chair

With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,

Thy eye with fire is streaming, And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air, Health sits in triumph beaming; Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, Fill high the wine to beauty; Iove, friendship, honour, all are thine, Thy country and thy duty.

[WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 1762-1850.]
THE CLIFF.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past,

When o'er the dark wave rode the

howling blast,

Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam

Of evening smiles on the grey battle, ment,

And yon forsaken tow'r that time has rent:

The lifted oar far off with silver gleam Is touched, and the hushed billows seem to sleep.

Soothed by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast

A kindred stillness steals, and bids her

rest ; Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep, Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre, Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.

ON THE RHINE.

TWAS morn, and beauteous on the moun. tain's brow

(Hung with the blushes of the bending vine)

Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow

In murmurs parted; varying as we go, Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire;

Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire

Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow.

Here dark with furrowed aspect, like despair,

Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side

The shadowy sunshine pours its stream. ing tide;

O TIME, who knowest a lenient hand to lay,

Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away: On thee I rest my only hopes at last;

And think when thou hast dried the

bitter tear,

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

I may look back on many a sorrow past, And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile