Ah! pilot, dangers often met,
We all are apt to slight,

And thou hast known these raging waves
But to subdue their might.

It is not apathy, he cried,

That gives this strength to me; Fear not; but trust in Providence, Wherever thou mayst be.

On such a night the sea engulfed
My father's lifeless form;
My only brother's boat went down
In just so wild a storm.

And such, perhaps, may be my fate,
But still, I say to thee

Fear not; but trust in Providence, Wherever thou mayst be.

I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings.

What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day;

Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay:

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL!

SHADES of evening, close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark a while!

Morn, alas! will not restore us
Yonder dim and distant isle;
Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover,

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light; Who will fill our vacant places?

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us, Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing, fondly, fare thee well!

When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,

And my eye in vain is seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon;
What would not I give to wander
Where my old companions dwell?
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I'D be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving forever from flower to flower,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet:
I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings. Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.

Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,

Power, alas! naught but misery brings:

THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

UPON the hill he turned

To take a last fond look,

Of the valley and the village church
And the cottage by the brook;
He listened to the sounds,

So familiar to his ear,

And the soldier leaned upon his sword And wiped away a tear.

Beside that cottage porch

A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf,
Which fluttered in the breeze;
She breathed a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,

But he paused to bless her, as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.

He turned and left the spot,

Oh, do not deem him weak;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek;
Go watch the foremost rank

In danger's dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.

LONG, LONG AGO.

TELL me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago-long, long ago;
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,

Long, long ago-long ago.

Now you are come, all my grief is removed,
Let me forget that so long you have roved,
Let me believe that you love as you loved,
Long, long ago-long ago.

Do you remember the path where we met,
Long, long ago-long, long ago?
Ah, yes; you told me you ne'er would forget,
Long, long ago—long ago.
Then to all others my smile you preferred,
Love when you spoke gave a charm to each word,
Still my heart treasures the praises I heard,
Long, long ago-long ago.

Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised,

Long, long ago-long, long ago; You by more eloquent lips have been praised,

I wore my bridal robe,

And I rivalled its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hairHow I hated their brightness! He called me by my name,

As the bride of anotherOh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother!

And once again we met

And a fair girl was near him; He smiled and whispered lowAs I once used to hear him; She leaned upon his arm

Once 'twas mine, and mine only;

I wept, for I deserved

To feel wretched and lonely.

And she will be his bride!

At the altar he'll give her The love that was too pure

For a heartless deceiver; The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smotherOb, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother!

DECK NOT WITH GEMS.

DECK not with gems that lovely form for me,
They in my eyes can add no charm to thee.
Braid not for me the tresses of thy hair;

I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair.

How oft, when half in tears, hast thou beguiled The sorrow from my heart, and I have smiled. Oh! formed alike my tears and smiles to share, I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair.

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

WHY don't the men propose, mamma?"
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;
You fete the finest men in town,

Yet, oh! they won't propose!

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons

I'm ever on the watch;

I've hopes when some distingué beau
A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,
Alas! he won't propose!

I've tried to win by languishing

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books, and talked of them As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropped like a man, I've felt

The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh! they won't propose!

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss ;

I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of miss;
And so I lisped out naught beyond
Plain "yeses or plain "noes,"
And wore a sweet, unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I propose again; "
I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,
I blushed like any rose;
But oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose!

And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh! what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one :

At balls I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows; Why won't the men propose, mamma? Why won't the men propose?

DAVID MACBETH MOIR was born at Musselburgh, Scotland, January 5, 1798. He was educated in the grammar-school of his native town, studied medicine in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year received a surgeon's diploma. He entered upon medical practice in Musselburgh, and continued it all his life.

Moir had written poetry at the age of fourteen, and in 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." He was a frequent contributor to "Constable's Edinburgh Magazine," and became a regular contributor to "Blackwood" soon after its establishment, signing his poems with the Greek letter A, whence he became popularly known as Delta. In 1824 he published "The Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems," and in 1843 another volume of poems entitled "Domestic Verses."

In 1851 he delivered in Edinburgh six lectures on "Poetical Literature of the past Half-Century," which were subsequently published in a volume. He also wrote in prose "The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh," originally published in "Blackwood," and was the author of several medical works.

Dr. Moir died at Dumfries, where he had gone to rest from overwork, July 6, 1851, leaving a widow and eight children. He was tall, with a florid complexion and a serious cast of countenance; a diligent and methodical worker, simple and kindly in all his ways. His best known poem is the elegy on a child who had given himself the name of "Casa Wappy." A collected edition of Moir's poems in two volumes, edited with a memoir by Thomas Aird, was published posthumously.

CASA WAPPY.

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy

The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?

Pure at thy death, as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth;
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;

Tears of our anguish may not tell

When thou didst die;

Words may not paint our grief for thee; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea

Of our unfathomed agony;

Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight,
To bless us given;

Beauty embodied to our sight-
A type of heaven!

So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self, than a part
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy;

Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!

This moon beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!

Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;

There dost thou glide before me still-
A form of light!

I feel thy breath upon my cheek-
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak-
Till oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!

Methinks thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth;

The hair thrown back from thy full brow
In buoyant health;

I see thine eyes' deep violet light-
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright-
Thy clasping arms so round and white-
Casa Wappy!

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat-thy bow-
Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scattered there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!

Even to the last, thy every wordTo glad to grieve