Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
Shine thy mount, Jerusalem;
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God;
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a glorious thousand years.
Now in hope of Him we trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

A PARISIAN FAUXBOURG.

"Tis light and air again: and lo! the Seine,
Yon boasted, lazy, livid, fetid drain!
With paper booths, and painted trees o'erlaid,
Baths, blankets, wash-tubs, women, all but trade.
Yet here are living beings, and the soil
Breeds its old growth of ribaldry and broil.
A whirl of mire, the dingy cabriolet

Makes the quick transit through the crowded way;
On spurs the courier, creaks the crazy wain,
Dragg'd through its central gulf of mud and stain;
Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd,
Naked, contagious, cringing, and yet proud.
The whole a mass of folly, filth, and strife,
Of heated, rank, corrupting, reptile life;
And, endless as their oozy tide, the throng
Roll on with endless clamour, curse, and song.
Fit for such tenants, lour on either side
The hovels where the gang less live than hide;
Story on story, savage stone on stone,
[thrown.
Time-shatter'd, tempest-stain'd, not built, but
Sole empress of the portal, in full blow,
The rouged grisette lays out her trade below,
Even in her rags a thing of wit and wile, [smile.
Eye, hand, lip, tongue, all point, and press, and
Close by. in patch and print, the pedlar's stall
Flutters its looser glories up the wall.

Spot of corruption! where the rabble rude
Loiter round tinsel tomes, and figures nude;
Voltaire, and Lais, long alternate eyed,
Till both the leper's soul and sous divide.
Above, 'tis desert, save where sight is scared
With the wild visage through the casement barr'd;
Or, swinging from their pole, chemise and sheet
Drip from the attic o'er the fuming street.

THE GRIEVINGS OF A PROUD SPIRIT.

CRIME may be clear'd, and Sorrow's eyes be dried, The lowliest poverty be gilded yet; The neck of airless, pale imprisonment Be lighten'd of its chains! For all the ills That chance or nature lays upon our heads, In chance or nature there is found a cure: But self-abasement is beyond all cure! The brand is there burn'd in the living flesh, That bears its mark to the grave. That dagger's Into the central pulses of the heart; [plunged The act is the mind's suicide; for which There is no after health-no hope-no pardon!

EFFECT OF ORATORY UPON A MUL

TITUDE.

[turn

His words seem'd oracles
That pierced their bosoms; and each man would
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face,
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him:
Then some would weep, some shout, some, deeper
touch'd,

Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.
The evening came, yet there the people stood,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping without a wave. You could have heard
The beating of your pulses while he spoke.

LOVE AN EVIL.

WHY, I could give you fact and argument, Brought from all earth-all life-all history;O'erwhelm you with sad tales, convictions strong, Till you could hate it; tell of gentle lives, Light as the lark's upon the morning cloud, Struck down at once by the keen shaft of love; Of maiden beauty, wasting all away, Like a departing vision into air; Finding no occupation for her eyes, But to bedew her couch with midnight tears, Till death upon its bosom pillow'd her; Of noble natures sour'd; rich minds obscured; High hopes turn'd blank; nay, of the kingly crown Mouldering amid the embers of the throne;And all by love. We paint him as a child, When he should sit, a giant on his clouds, The great, disturbing spirit of the world!

JEWELS.

You shall have all that ever sparkled yet, And of the rarest. Not an Afric king Shall wear one that you love. The Persian's brow, And the swart emperor's by the Indian stream Shall wane beside you; you shall be a blaze Of rubies, your lips rivals; topazes, Like solid sunbeams; moony opals; pearls, Fit to be Ocean's lamps; brown hyacinths, Lost only in your tresses; chrysolites, Transparent gold; diamonds, like new-shot stars, Or brighter, like those eyes! You shall have all That ever lurk'd in Eastern mines, or paved With light the treasure-chambers of the sea.

MOUNTAINEERS.

THE mountain-horn shall ring,

And every Alp shall answer; and the caves,
And forest depths and valleys, and the beds
Of the eternal snows, shall pour out tribes
That know no Roman tyrants, daring hearts,
Swift feet, strong hands, that neither hunger, thirst,
Nor winter cataracts, nor the tempest's roar,
When the hills shake with thunderbolts, can tire.

THIS poet was a native of Ayrshire, and was several years editor of a newspaper in Glasgow. He was an antiquary, and particularly delighted in the study of the early ballads and other poetry of Scotland and England, of which he published a selection in 1827, entitled Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, with an Historical Introduction and Notes. In this volume he published his own spirited lyric, The Cavalier's Song, professing an ignorance of its authorship. His Poems Narrative and

Lyrical appeared in 1832. Some of them are exceedingly beautiful. Jeannie Morrison and "My heid is like to rend, Willie," are scarcely surpassed for simplicity and tenderness in the whole range of Scottish poetry. MOTHERWELL, like Burns, was poor, and, like him, toward the close of his life, he sought excitement and forgetfulness in intemperance. He died in Glasgow on the fifteenth of October, 1835, in the thirty-seventh year of his

age.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

Mr heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break,-
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!
O lay your check to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,-
O say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will,-
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,-
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,-
Or it will burst its silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair!

O wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,-
O wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
O wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,-
And wae's me for the destinie,
That gart me luve thee sae!

O! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame,-
But O! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!

42

Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,-
I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine,-
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart, -

O! haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.

Anither, and anither yet

How fast my life-strings break!Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake!

The laverock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

THE WATER! THE WATER!

THE water! the water!

The joyous brook for me,

That tuneth, through the quiet night,

Its ever-living glee.

The water! the water!

That sleepless, merry heart,

Which gurgles on unstintedly,
And loveth to impart

To all around it some small measure
Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The water! the water!

The gentle stream for me,

That gushes from the old gray stone,
Beside the alder tree.

The water! the water!

That ever-bubbling spring

I loved and looked on while a child,
In deepest wondering,-

And ask'd it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.

The water! the water!

The merry, wanton brook,

That bent itself to pleasure me,

Like mine own shepherd crook. The water! the water!

That sang so sweet at noon,
And sweeter still all night, to win
Smiles from the pale, proud moon,
And from the little fairy faces
That gleam in heaven's remotest places.
The water! the water!

The dear and blessed thing,
That all day fed the little flowers
On its banks blossoming.
The water! the water!
That murmur'd in my ear
Hymns of a saint-like purity,

That angels well might hear;
And whisper, in the gates of heaven,
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.

The water! the water!

Where I have shed salt tears,
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
The water! the water!

Where I have happy been,
And shower'd upon its bosom flowers
Cull'd from each meadow green,
And idly hoped my life would be
So crown'd by love's idolatry.

The water! the water!

My heart yet burns to think
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,
For parched lip to drink.

The water! the water!

Of mine own native glen;

The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again;
Though fancy fills my ear for aye
With sounds that live so far away!

The water! the water!

The mild and glassy wave,

Upon whose broomy banks I've long'd

To find my silent grave.

The water! the water!

Oh bless'd to me thou art; Thus sounding in life's solitude, The music of my heart, And filling it, despite of sadness, With dreamings of departed gladness.

The water! the water!

The mournful, pensive tone,

That whisper'd to my heart how soon

This weary life was done.

The water! the water!

That roll'd so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful

Was its soul's purity; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn at Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,

"Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sittin' on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think?
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said
We cleek'd thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!

O lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnie hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burn-side,
And hear it's water's croon ?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth,

Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,

I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wand'rings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper as it rins

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd

O' bygane days and me!

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory
On that low mound;

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crown'd;

Will there be then one versed in misery's story
Pacing it round?

It may be so, but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,-

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,
From hearts that bleed,

The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;

And though thy bosom should with grief be swell

It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knell

Let no tear start;

Sad one, depart!

O AGONY! KEEN AGONY!

O AGONY! keen agony,

For trusting heart, to find

[ing,

[ing

That vows believed were vows conceived

As light as summer wind.

O agony! fierce agony,

For loving heart to brook

In one brief hour the withering power

Of unimpassion'd look.

O agony! deep agony,

For heart that's proud and high,

To learn of fate how desolate

It may be ere it die.

O agony! sharp agony

To find how loth to part

With the fickleness and faithlessness

That break a trusting heart!

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER

MONTHS.

THEY come! the merry summer months

Of beauty, song, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring Thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up my heart! and walk abroad,

Fling cark and care aside, Seek silent hills, or rest thyself Where peaceful waters glide;

Or, underneath the shadow vast

Of patriarchal tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky
In rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch

Is grateful to the hand,

And, like the kiss of maiden love,
The breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup
Are nodding courteously,

It stirs their blood with kindest love

To bless and welcome thee:

And mark how with thine own thin locks

They now are silver gray

That blissful breeze is wantoning,

And whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along

The ocean of yon sky

But hath its own wing'd mariners

To give it melody:

Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread
All gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical,
Their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones,
Who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys,
And vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,
From yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim, green glade
Did breathe his own glad name;-
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird,
That apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous
To the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again-
His notes are void of art,

But simplest strains do soonest sound
The deep founts of the heart!

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon

For thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers
Beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath
Their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams
Of youth's bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt,
The reckless truant boy

Wander'd through green woods all day long,
A mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now, I have had cause;
But oh! I'm proud to think

That each pure joy-fount loved of yore

I yet delight to drink ;

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream,
The calm, unclouded sky,

Still mingle music with my dreams,
As in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light
Fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse-
A heart that hath wax'd old.

I AM NOT SAD.

I AM not sad, though sadness seem
At times to cloud my brow;
I cherish'd once a foolish dream,-
Thank Heaven 'tis not so now.
Truth's sunshine broke,
And I awoke

To feel 'twas right to bow

To fate's decree, and this my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

I grieve not, though a tear may fill
This glazed and vacant eye;

Old thoughts will rise, do what we will,

But soon again they die;

An idle gush,
And all is hush,

The fount is soon run dry: And cheerly now I meet my doom, The darkness of a nameless tomb.

I am not mad, although I see
Things of no better mould
Than I myself am, greedily
In fame's bright page enroll'd,
That they may tell
The story well,

What shines may not be gold. No, no! content I court my doom, The darkness of a nameless tomb.

The luck is theirs the loss is mine,
And yet no loss at all;
The mighty ones of eldest time,
I ask where they did fall?
Tell me the one

Who e'er could shun
Touch with oblivion's pall?
All bear with me an equal doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

Brave temple and huge pyramid,
Hill sepulchred by art,
The barrow acre-vast where hid
Moulders some Nimrod's heart;
Each monstrous birth
Cumbers old earth,

But acts a voiceless part,
Resolving all to mine own doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.

Tradition with her palsied hand,
And purblind history, may