These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!"

Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is pressed Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayest see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken,

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken,
Even

my

soul forsakes me now: But 't is done - all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still: But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well — thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die.

ROBERT POLLOK.

(1799-1827.)

SOLITUDE.

PLEASANT were many scenes, but most to me The solitude of vast extent, untouched By hand of art, where nature sowed herself, And reaped her crops; whose garments were the clouds; Whose minstrels brooks; whose lamps the moon and stars; Whose organ-choir the voice of many waters; Whose banquets morning dews; whose heroes storms; Whose warriors mighty winds; whose lovers flowers ; Whose orators the thunderbolts of God; Whose palaces the everlasting hills; Whose ceiling heaven's unfathomable blue; And from whose rocky turrets battled high Prospect immense spread out on all sides round, Lost now beneath the welkin and the main, Now walled with hills that slept above the storm. Most fit was such a place for musing men, Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss The lonely bard enjoyed when forth he walked, Unpurposed; stood, and knew not why; sat down, And knew not where; arose, and knew not when; Had eyes, and saw not; ears, and nothing heard ; And nought — sought neither heaven nor earth — sought nought; Nor meant to think; but ran meantime through vast Of visionary things, fairer than aught That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, Which men of common stature never saw.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

(1771 - still living.)

NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is and truth that seems,

· Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears Those graves

of

memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young like things on earth!

Night is the time to watch;

On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,

That brings unto the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering nost,
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views

Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends - such death be mine :

HOME.

There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every cline the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ! Art thou a man? -a patriot? — look around; O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!