"Among a thousand maids," I cried, "There is not such another!"

I wandered to my scholar's home,
It lonesome looked and dreary;
I took my books, but could not read,
Methought that I was weary.

I laid me down upon my bed,

My heart with sadness laden;

I dreamed but of the mountain wold, And of the mountain maiden.

I saw her of the ancient book
The pages turning slowly;

I saw her lovely crimson cheek,
And dark eye drooping lowly.

The dream was like the day's delight,
A life of pain's o'erpayment:

I rose, and with unwonted care,
Put on my Sabbath raiment.

To none I told my secret thoughts,
Not even to my mother,

Nor to the friend who, from my youth,
Was dear as is a brother.

I got me to the hills again;

The little flock was feeding: And there young Tibbie Inglis sat, But not the old book reading.

She sat as if absorbing thought
With heavy spells had bound her,
As silent as the mossy crags
Upon the mountains round her.

I thought not of my Sabbath dress;
I thought not of my learning:

I thought but of the gentle maid
Who, I believed, was mourning.

Bonny Tibbie Inglis!

How her beauty brightened, Looking at me, half abashed,

With eyes that flamed and lightened!

There was no sorrow, then I saw,
There was no thought of sadness:
O life! what after-joy hast thou
Like love's first certain gladness?

I sat me down among the crags,
Upon the mountain hoary;

But read not then the ancient book,-
Love was our pleasant story.

As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin',

"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang;

She heard the craw sayin't, high on the trees sittin',

And the robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

"O, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?

If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?

I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie

183

The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea;

But Lucy likes Jamie;- she turned and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.

Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!

For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never

return!

UNKNOWN.

SUMMER DAYS.

crowns;

We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs;

And always wished our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook;

And still her voice flowed forth in song, Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon; And in the sunlight and the breeze We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas.

We found a heaven in every spot; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot.

In summer, when the days are long, Alone I wander, muse alone.

I see her not; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown,

In summer, when the days are long.

Alone I wander in the wood:
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see, so glad and good,
The honest daylight of her eyes,

That charmed me under earlier skies.

In summer, when the days are long,

I love her as we loved of old.

My heart is light, my step is strong;

"Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead, —

For the wrecks of land and sea! But, however it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."

FRANCES BROWNE.

LOSSES.

UPON the white sea-sand

There sat a pilgrim band,

ROBERT NICOLL.

[1814-1837.]

WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

known;

While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tides went out with weary

moan.

One spake, with quivering lip,
Of a fair freighted ship,

With all his household to the deep gone down;

But one had wilder woe,
For a fair face, long ago

Lost in the darker depths of a great town.

There were who mourned their youth

With a most loving ruth,

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,

Amid the uproar of the storm,

And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,

Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air: Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge?

There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge.

THE SPECTRE HORSE.

HE's now upon the spectre's back,

With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed!-the rein is slack Within his senseless hold; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides,

Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides.

He goes with speed; he goes with dread! And now they're on the hanging steep!

And, now! the living and the dead,

They'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short;- his feet are on the verge.

He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame.

From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,

On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban.

How fast he moves the lip! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound!

What see you, Lee? the bodies of the

A dreadful power is mine, which none can know

He

sees

Save he who leagues his soul with death

No

and woe.

beauty in the wave, breeze.

nor feels the