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Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
EFFECT OF ORATORY UPON A MUL-
TITUDE. Fruits of more than Paradise ;
His words seem'd oracles (turn Earth by angel feet be trod,
That pierced their bosoms; and each man would One great garden of her God;
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face, Till are dried the martyr's tears,
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him: Through a glorious thousand years.
Then some would weep, some shout, some, deeper Now in hope of Him we trust
touch'd, “ Earth to earth, and dust to dust!”
Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping without a wave. You could have heard 'Tis light and air again: and lo! the Seine,
The beating of your pulses while he spoke.
LOVE AN EVIL.
Wur, I could give you fact and argument, Breeds its old growth of ribaldry and broil.
Brought from all earth—all life-all history ;A whirl of mire, the dingy cabriolet
O'erwhelm you with sad tales, convictions strong, Makes the quick transit through the crowded way;
Till you could hate it; tell of gentle lives, On spurs the courier, creaks the crazy wain,
Light as the lark's upon the morning cloud, Dragg'd through its central gulf of mud and stain;
Struck down at once by the keen shaft of love; Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd,
Of maiden beauty, wasting all away, Naked, contagious, cringing, and yet proud.
Like a departing vision into air ; The whole a mass of folly, filth, and strife,
Finding no occupation for her eyes, Of heated, rank, corrupting, reptile life;
But to bedew her couch with midnight tears, And, endless as their oozy tide, the throng
Till death upon its bosom pillow'd her; Roll on with endless clamour, curse, and song.
! Of noble natures sour'd; rich minds obscured; Fit for such tenants, lour on either side
High hopes turn'd blank; nay, of the kingly crown The hovels where the gang less live than hide;
Mouldering amid the embers of the throne ;Story on story, savage stone on stone, thrown.
And all by love. We paint him as a child, Time-shatter'd, tempest-stain'd, not built, but
When he should sit, a giant on his clouds,
The great, disturbing spirit of the world!
You shall have all that ever sparkled yet,
And of the rarest. Not an Afric king Voltaire, and Lais, long alternate eyed,
Shall wear one that you love. The Persian's brow, Till both the leper's soul and sous divide.
And the swart emperor's by the Indian stream Above, 'tis desert, save where sight is scared
Shall wane beside you; you shall be a blaze With the wild visage through the casement barr'd;
Of rubies, your lips rivals; topazes, Or, swinging from their pole, chemise and sheet
Like solid sunbeams; moony opals; pearls,
Fit to be Ocean's lamps; brown hyacinths,
Or brighter,--like those eyes! You shall have all THE GRIEVINGS OF A PROUD SPIRIT. | That ever lurk'd in Eastern mines, or paved
With light the treasure-chambers of the sea.
The mountain-horn shall ring, In chance or nature there is found a cure:
And every Alp shall answer; and the caves, But self-abasement is beyond all cure!
And forest depths and valleys, and the beds The brand is there burn'd in the living flesh, Of the eternal snows, shall pour out tribes That bears its mark to the grave.—That dagger's That know no Roman tyrants,-daring hearts, Into the central pulses of the heart; [plunged Swift feet, strong hands, that neither hunger, thirst, The act is the mind's suicide ; for which
Nor winter cataracts, nor the tempest's roar, There is no after health-no hope--no pardon! When the hills shake with thunderbolts,--can tire.
This poet was a native of Ayrshire, and was | Lyrical appeared in 1832. Some of them are several years editor of a newspaper in Glas exceedingly beautiful. Jeannie Morrison and gow. He was an antiquary, and particular “My heid is like to rend, Willie," are scarcely delighted in the study of the early ballads ly surpassed for simplicity and tenderness in and other poetry of Scotland and England, of the whole range of Scottish poetry. MOTHERwhich he published a selection in 1827, entitled well, like Burns, was poor, and, like him, Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, with an His toward the close of his life, he sought extorical Introduction and Notes. In this vo- citement and forgetfulness in intemperance. lume he published his own spirited lyric, The He died in Glasgow on the fifteenth of OctoCavalier's Song, professing an ignorance of ber, 1835, in the thirty-seventh year of his its authorship. His Poems Narrative and I age.
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin;
For sorrow and for sin ?
I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,
Or be as I should be.
The heart that still is thine,
Ye said was red langsyne.
MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
My heart is like to break,-
I'm dyin' for your sake!
Your hand on my briest-bane,-
When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me shed by your hair,
I never sall see mair!
For the last time in my life,
A mither, yet nao wife.
And press it mair and mair,-
Sae strang is its despair !
· When we thegither met,-
That our first tryst was set !
Where we were wont to gae,
That gart me luve thee sae !
I downa seek to blame,
THE WATER! THE WATER!
The water! the water !
The mild and glassy wave, Upon whose broomy banks I've long'd
To find my silent grave. The water! the water!
Oh bless'd to me thou art; Thus sounding in life's solitude,
The music of my heart, And filling it, despite of sadness, With dreamings of departed gladness. The water! the water !
The mournful, pensive tone, That whisper'd to my heart how soon
This weary life was done. The water ! the water !
That rolld so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful
Was its soul's purity; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave.
The water! the water !
The joyous brook for me, That tuneth, through the quiet night,
Its ever-living glee. The water! the water!
That sleepless, merry heart,
And loveth to impart
The gentle stream for me,
Beside the alder tree.
That ever-bubbling spring
In deepest wondering,
The merry, wanton brook, That bent itself to pleasure me,
Mike mine own shepherd crook. The water! the water !
That sang so sweet at noon, And seeter still all night, to win
s from the pale, proud moon,
rom the little fairy faces Tilat gleam in heaven's remotest places. The water! the water !
The dear and blessed thing, That all day fed the little flowers
On its banks blossoming. The water! the water !
That murmur'd in my ear Hymns of a saint-like purity,
That angels well might hear; And whisper, in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. The water ! the water!
Where I have shed salt tears, In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
Where I have happy been,
Cull'd from each meadow green,
My heart yet burns to think
For parched lip to drink.
Of mine own native glen; The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again; Though fancy fills my ear for aye With sounds that live so far away!
I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way;
The luve o' life's young day!
May weel be black gin Yule;
Where first fond luve grows cule.
The thochts o' bygane years
And blind my een wi' tears :
And sair and sick I pine,
The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
When sittin' on that bink,
What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
My lesson was in thee.
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes
The broomy braes o' June ?
My heart flows like a sea,
O scule-time and othee.
O lichtsome days and lang,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
The deavin', dinsome toun,
And hear it's water's croon?
The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;
The burn sang to the trees,
For hours thegither sat
Wi' very gladness grat.
Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
Gin I hae been to thee
As ye hae been to me?
Thine ear as it does mine;
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?
I've borne a weary lot;
Ye never were forgot.
Still travels on its way;
The luve o' life's young day.
Since we were sinder'd young,
The music o' your tongue;
And happy could I die,
O' bygane days and me!
LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND
Life's fever o'er,
That I'm no more?
Of heretofore ?
[ing, When the gwollen streams o'er crag and gully gushLike full hearts break,
[ing, Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing
Mourn for my sake ?
With purest ray,
Burst through that clay; (twining, Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?
On that low mound;
Its loneness crown'd;
Pacing it round?
To ask such meed,
From hearts that bleed,
Shall never need.
Thou gentle heart;
fing, It were in vain,--for Time hath long been knellSad one, depart!
O AGONY! KEEN AGONY! O AGONY! keen agony,
For trusting heart, to find That vows believed were vows conceived
As light as summer wind. O agony ! fierce agony,
For loving heart to brook In one brief hour the withering power
Of unimpassion'd look. O agony! deep agony,
For heart that's proud and high, To learn of fate how desolate
It may be ere it die.
To find how loth to part
That break a trusting heart!
I'm sadder now, I have had cause;
But oh! I'm proud to think That each pure joy-fount loved of yore
I yet delight to drink;
The calm, unclouded sky,
As in the days gone by.
Fall round me dark and cold,
A heart that hath wax'd old.
THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER
Of beauty, song, and flowers;
Thick leafiness to bowers.
Fling cark and care aside,
Where peaceful waters glide;
Of patriarchal tree,
In rapt tranquillity.
Is grateful to the hand,
The breeze is sweet and bland;
Are nodding courteously,
To bless and welcome thee:
They now are silver gray- -
And whispering, “Be gay!"
The ocean of yon sky
To give it melody:
All gleaming like red gold,
Their merry course they hold.
Who far above this earth,
And vent a nobler mirth.
From yonder wood it came;
Did breathe his own glad name ;Yes, it is he! the hermit bird,
That apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous
To the soft western wind;
His notes are void of art,
The deep founts of the heart !
For thought-crazed wight like me,
Beneath this summer tree !
Their little souls away,
Of youth's bright summer day,
The reckless truant boy Wander'd through green woods all day long,
A mighty heart of joy!
I AM NOT SAD.
At times to cloud my brow;
Truth's sunshine broke,
And I awoke
This glazed and vacant eye;
An idle gush,
And all is hush,
Things of no better mould
That they may tell
The story well,
And yet no loss at all;
Tell me the one
Hill sepulchred by art,
Each monstrous birth
Cumbers old earth,
And purblind history, may