ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY. 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, Within itself eternity, And the whole world that shade Beneath the trees which gently stirred With music on each bough, A long, a bright long summer's day Though scarcely seen to glide. They parted-she to early rest, A nation ranks amid her best, And gives, what they gave, fame: Let no one deem, that vain regret Look on the wrong and littleness, The hope, that every day makes less, 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 A grace beyond all other grace, 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! 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 And many an eye grown strange. Where is the early confidence, Gone, gone! so soon!—yet not in vain A well of sympathy for those, If thus with them-the stern, the cold, To one cast in the poet's mould, He of this fairy scene? A spirit from that hour was shed, His own heart was the key! L. E. L. "LAUGH AND GET FAT!" 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 understood, we would laugh at it too! Merry Beggars. I. THERE's nothing here on earth deserves To frighten us poor laughing sinners. Never sigh when you can sing, II. One plagues himself about the sun, And puzzles on, through every weather, R |