Welcome that tomb !-its dark recess
Is peaceful in its loneliness ;-
There anguish cannot groan,

There all the ties that bind the soul,
Love's tenderest bonds of soft control,
Are broken-like thine own!

THE FRIENDS' FAREWELL.

THE day is fading from the sky,
And soft the twilight breathes
Its balmy and luxuriant sigh

Through summer's blushing wreaths :
That sigh is Hope's desponding knell;
Its every murmur sounds-" Farewell!"

The days that late so kindly sped,
Are as a vision,pass'd;

The hours they number'd all are fled,
Too bright-too gay to last!

And fond remembrance traces o'er

Each scene that we behold no more.

Our friends around our cottage hearth,
In fancy's eye are seen;

We trace on the retentive earth,
The steps where they have been :

A shrub, a flower, not cull'd in vain,
Recalls them to our minds again.

There is a pensive pure delight
In friendship's warm regret

For those who beam'd upon our sight;
Like suns that cloudless set,
Which cheer'd with heart-enlivening ray
Young Pleasure's brief but happy day.

Sweet is the memory of that time
When joy and mirth were ours;
When Peace and Pleasure lov'd to twine
Their mingled wreath of flowers.

Say, Did the garland bloom in vain ?

Or, will its sweets revive again?

The brighter shines resplendent day
The darker evening seems;

And morning's sunbeams break their way
Though clouds abate their gleams;
But still we hail the jocund light,
Nor think upon approaching night.

And when the summer's gentle dew
Falls on the lonely flower,
E'en as it trembles to the view
Within its greenwood bower-
We presage, from its tender ray,
The dawning of the brighter day!

CROOKBARROW HILL,

WORCESTERSHIRE,

Accounted the largest Barrow in England.

TOMB of the mighty brave! sublime afar,
Rear'd by the chiefs of elder days,
When the stern Pict and Briton rush'd to war,
Glory's proud cenotaph not vain essays.
What though unknown the hero's name,
Deathless his fame!

Temple of God! fair nature's shrine,

With holy awe is seen the labour'd mound

Immortal is the great design;

Successive verdure crowns the ground!

Amid the landscape lifts its conic form,

The scatter'd lightning's blaze, and winter's howling storm.

Repose is thine, eternal as the world!

The warring elements, the wreck of time,

The earthquake shock that ruin hurl'd-
Still thou art seen in years sublime.

Ages around thee undistinguish'd lie,

But thou, preserved by heaven, art sacred in the sky.

Luckless is he, whom hard fates urge on
To practise as a country surgeon-
To drag a heavy galling chain,
The slave of all for paltry gain-
To ride regardless of all weather,

Through frost, and snow, and hail together-
To smile and bow when sick and tired,
Consider'd as a servant hired.

At every quarter of the compass,
A surly patient makes a rumpus,
Because he is not seen the first,

(For each man thinks his case the worst.)
And oft at two points diametric,

Call'd to a business obstetric.
There lies a man with broken limb,
A lady here with nervous whim,
Who, at the acme of her fever,
Calls him a savage if he leave her.
For days and nights in some lone cottage
Condemn'd to live on crusts and pottage,
To kick his heels, and spin his brains,
Waiting, forsooth, for labour's pains;
And that job over, happy he,
If he squeeze out a guinea fee.
Then worn like culprit on the wheel,
He sits him down to hasty meal;
He sits! when, lo! a patient comes,
With rotten tooth and putrid gums:
The doctor takes his dentist tools,
Fixes the screw, and tugs and pulls ;
His dinner cold, his hands this mess in,
All for a shilling or a blessing.
Now comes the night, with toil opprest,
He seeks his bed in hope of rest:
Vain hope, his slumbers are no more,
Loud sounds the knocker at the door,
A farmer's wife, at ten miles distance,
Groaning, calls out for his assistance:
Fretting and fuming in the dark,
He in the tinder strikes a spark,
And, as he yawning heaves his breeches,
Envies his neighbour bless'd with riches.

QUIS.

ELEGY

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN LOWE,

Author of the pathetic and popular Ballad, " Mary's Dream."

[John Lowe was born at Kenmure, in Galloway, in the year 1750; he now lies buried near Fredericksburgh, Virginia, under the shade of two palm-trees; but not a stone is there on which to write," Mary, weep no more for me."-See Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song.]

FAR distant retiring, the Muse folds her pinions,
Attuning her lyre to the dictates of woe;
Far distant from Scotia's enlighten'd dominions,
She mourns the sad fate of her favourite Lowe.

The wild-flow'rs are faded that deck'd the sage mountain
On which he delighted at morning to pore,

And sing to the Naiads that guarded the fountain,
Who weep for thine absence, sweet bard of Kenmore.

The banks of Rapp'hanock his cold clay's immuring,
And thither she wanders in sorrow to weep;
Though clouds of oblivion his worth are obscuring,
The sparks of his genius O never shall sleep.

Beneath the tall pine-tree majestic ascending,
Where youthful Vertumnus implanted his store;
Where blooms the wide climber, its claspers extending,
She found the lone grave of the bard of Kenmore.

Now low on the grave-sward, dejectedly musing,
The Genius of Fancy reclines with her lyre;
Far distant her wailing the mock-bird's diffusing,
And Echo responsive the Dryads inspire;

Who pause from their sporting, and pensively ponder,
And sigh with the zephyrs that undulate o'er;

Who oft hear the feeling, as thither they wander,

Breathe, "Peace to thine ashes, sweet bard of Kenmore—”

And those that are love-lorn, and strangers to gladness,
By smooth-flowing Ken, or the murmuring Dee;
Who seek from their lute-strings a balm for their sadness,
Shall find it in breathing a requiem for thee.

And, Airds, as thy beauties are genially blooming,
Amidst thy recesses shall Pity deplore,
That mute is her minstrel, with grief unassuming,
While Memory reveres him as bard of Kenmore.

A. KYNE.

TO THE PRIMROSE.

BY JOHN MAYNE.

By murm'ring Nith, my native stream,
I've hail'd thee with the morning's beam-
Woo'd thee among the falls of Clyde,
On Leven's banks, on Kelvin side;
And now, on Hanwell's flow'ry plain,
I welcome thy return again!
At Hanwell! where romantic views,
And sylvan scenes, invite the Muse;
And where, lest erring man should stray,
Truth's blameless teacher leads the way.

Lorn tenant of the peaceful glade,
Emblem of virtue in the shade,
Rearing thy head to brave the storm,
That would thine innocence deform.
Of all the flow'rs that greet the spring,
Of all the flow'rs the seasons bring,
To me, while doom'd to linger here,
The lowly Primrose shall be dear.

Sprung like a Primrose in the wild,
Short, like the Primrose, Marion smil'd-
The Spring, that gave her blossoms birth,
Tore them for ever from the earth!
Nor left, ah me! one bud behind
To tranquillize a parent's mind,

Save that sweet bud that strews the way,
Blest Hope, to an eternal May.

Lorn tenant of the peaceful glade,
Emblem of virtue in the shade!
Pure as the blossoms on yon thorn-
Spotless as her for whom we mourn!
Of all the flow'rs that greet the spring,
Of all the flow'rs the seasons bring,
To me, while doom'd to linger here,
The lowly Primrose shall be dear.