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After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affection, we met by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands.

Burns' Letters,

A Highland girl, a peasant he,

To whom the present made
Within itself eternity,

And the whole world that shade

Beneath the trees which gently stirred

With music on each bough,
The waving leaf, the singing-bird,

And whispers fairy low,-

A long, a bright long summer's day

Passed, like the stream beside,
Which ran in shine and song away,

Though scarcely seen to glide.

They parted — she to early rest,

And he to earn a name
A nation ranks amid her best,

And gives, what they gave, fame:

Let no one deem, that vain regret

Is in the peevish lays
Which say, too high a price is set

Upon such hard-won praise.

Look on the wrong and littleness,

The sorrow and the strife, The hope, that every day makes less,

Of literary life;

Look on the consciousness of power,

The presence of despair, The vision of the loftier hour,

Broken by real care;

Even as the Jewish monarch fared,

Who walked in joy or pain Alternate, as sweet music shared

The evil spirit's reign.

But what have we to do with this?

Ours is that earlier time, Ere the heart fevered for vain bliss,

Or the lip spoke in rhyme.

The power within him only gave

New beauty to the scene; Linked love-thoughts with the gentle wave,

And with the forest green;

And gave the sweet and simple face

On which he gazed, a charm;A grace beyond all other grace,

Beyond all time to harm.

The influence of that hour appears,

When it could only seem 'Mid other loves, and hopes, and fears,

To memory, like a dream.

Still it rose beautiful and young;

A thought alone — apart —
A first creed, to which faith still clung,

An Eden of the heart! .

Ah! early love! ah! only love!

Yes, only!--what can be
Our flower below, our star above,

In after life, like thee?

Affection lingers to the last,

And we may love once more;
Morn's freshness is with morning past ---

We love not as of yore.

We have grown selfish, and we know

The strength of chance and change; For many a voice is altered now,

And many an eye grown strange.

Where is the early confidence,

Whose kindly trust depends, Drawn from itself its inference,

On future hours and friends?

Gone, gone! so soon !—yet not in vain

Has been their sojourn here; A fountain in the desert plain

Of memory, pure and dear.

A well of sympathy for those,

The loving and the young, Letting not that harsh circle close

By interest round us flung.

If thus with them, the stern, the cold,

What must its charm have been To one cast in the poet's mould,

He of this fairy scene?

A spirit from that hour was shed,

His spell of song to be;
And if in other hearts he read,

His own heart was the key!

L. E. L.


Lack we motives to laugh? Are not all things, any thing, every thing, to be laughed at ? And if nothing were to be seen, felt, heard, or under. stood, we would laugh at it too!

Merry Beggars.

THERE 's nothing here on earth deserves

Half of the thought we waste about it,
And thinking but destroys the nerves,

When we could do so well without it:
If folks would let the world go round,

And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners,
Such doleful looks would not be found,

To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at every thing !

One plagues himself about the sun,

And puzzles on, through every weather,
What time he 'll rise,– how long he 'll run, -

And when he 'll leave us altogether :

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