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Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
Shine thy mount, Jerusalem;

EFFECT OF ORATORY UPON A MUL-
Then shall in the desert rise

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,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.
The evening came, yet there the people stood,

As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
A PARISIAN FAUXBOURG.

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.
Yon boasted, lazy, livid, fetid drain!
With paper booths, and painted trees o'erlaid,
Baths, blankets, wash-tubs, women, all but trade.

LOVE AN EVIL.
Yet here are living beings, and the soil

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,
Sole empress of the portal, in full blow,

The great, disturbing spirit of the world!
The rouged grisette lays out her trade below,
Even in her rags a thing of wit and wile, [smile.
Eye, hand, lip, tongue, all point, and press, and
Close by, in patch and print, the pedlar's stall

JEWELS.
Flutters its looser glories up the wall.
Spot of corruption ! where the rabble rude

You shall have all that ever sparkled yet,
Loiter round tinsel tomes, and figures nude ;

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,
Drip from the attic o'er the fuming street.

Fit to be Ocean's lamps; brown hyacinths,
Lost only in your tresses ; chrysolites,
Transparent gold; diamonds, like new-shot stars,

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.
Crime may be clear'd, and Sorrow's eyes be dried,
The lowliest poverty be gilded yet;
The neck of airless, pale imprisonment
Be lighten'd of its chains! For all the ills

MOUNTAINEERS.
That chance or nature lays upon our heads,

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.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

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;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow and for sin ?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,

Ye said was red langsyne.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break,-
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake!
O lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane,-
O say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun hae its will,
But let me rest upon your briest,

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nao wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,-
Or it will burst its silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair !
O wae's me for the hour, Willie,

· When we thegither met,-
O wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
O wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie,

That gart me luve thee sae !
O! dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame,
But 0! it's hard to live, Willie,
And'dree a warld's shame!

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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.

JEANIE MORRISON.

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,
Which gurgles on unstintedly,

And loveth to impart
To all around it some small measure
Of its own most perfect pleasure.
The water ! the water !

The gentle stream for me,
That gushes from the old gray stone,

Beside the alder tree.
The water ! the water !

That ever-bubbling spring
I loved and looked on while a child,

In deepest wondering,
And ask'd it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.
The water! the water !

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.
The water! the water !

Where I have happy been,
And shower'd upon its bosom flowers

Cull'd from each meadow green,
And idly hoped my life would be
So crown'd by love's idolatry.
The water! the water !

My heart yet burns to think
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,

For parched lip to drink.
The water! the water!

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;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn at Beltane e'en

May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart

Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,

And blind my een wi' tears :
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,

And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up

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;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,

Remember'd evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sittin' on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,

What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,

How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said

We cleek'd thegither hame?

I

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 head rins round and round about,

My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O scule-time and othee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!

O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnie hopes around our hearts

Like simmer blossoms sprang!
0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burn-side,

And hear it's water's croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,

The burn sang to the trees,
And we with nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith

Wi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane

Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,

Unsyllabled-unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me?
Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;
Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?
I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,

I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wand'rings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins

The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face nor heard

The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd

O' bygane days and me!

LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND
A DAY OR TWO BEFORE THE DECEASE OF THE WRITER.
WHEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,

Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping

That I'm no more?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping

Of heretofore ?
When the great winds through leafless forests rush-
Sad music make;

[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 ?
When the bright sun upon that spot is shining

With purest ray,
And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms

Burst through that clay; (twining, Will there be one still on that spot repining

Lost hopes all day?
When no star twinkles with its eye of glory

On that low mound;
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary

Its loneness crown'd;
Will there be then one versed in misery's story

Pacing it round?
It may be s0,—but this is selfish sorrow

To ask such meed,
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,

From hearts that bleed,
The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow

Shall never need.
Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,

Thou gentle heart;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swell-
Let no tear start;

fing, It were in vain,--for Time hath long been knellSad one, depart!

[ing

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.
O agony! sharp agony

To find how loth to part
With the fickleness and faithlessness

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;
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream,

The calm, unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams,

As in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light

Fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse-

A heart that hath wax'd old.

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER

MONTHS.
They come! the merry summer months

Of beauty, song, and flowers;
They come! the gladsome months that bring

Thick leafiness to bowers.
Up, up my heart! and walk abroad,

Fling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself

Where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast

Of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky

In rapt tranquillity.
The grass is soft, its velvet touch

Is grateful to the hand,
And, like the kiss of maiden love,

The breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup

Are nodding courteously,
It stirs their blood with kindest love

To bless and welcome thee:
And mark how with thine own thin locks

They now are silver gray- -
That blissful breeze is wantoning,

And whispering, “Be gay!"
There is no cloud that sails along

The ocean of yon sky
But hath its own wing'd mariners

To give it melody:
Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread

All gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical,

Their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones,

Who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys,

And vent a nobler mirth.
But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,

From yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim, green glade

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;
Cuckoo! cuckoo ! he sings again

His notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound

The deep founts of the heart !
Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon

For thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers

Beneath this summer tree !
To suck once more in every breath

Their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams

Of youth's bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt,

The reckless truant boy Wander'd through green woods all day long,

A mighty heart of joy!

I AM NOT SAD.
I am not sad, though sadness seem

At times to cloud my brow;
I cherish'd once a foolish dream,-
Thank Heaven 'tis not so now.

Truth's sunshine broke,

And I awoke
To feel 'twas right to how
To fate's decree, and this my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
I grieve not, though a tear may fill

This glazed and vacant eye;
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will,
But soon again they die;

An idle gush,

And all is hush,
The fount is soon run dry:
And cheerly now I meet my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
I am not mad, although I see

Things of no better mould
Than I myself am, greedily
In fame's bright page enroll'd,

That they may tell

The story well,
What shines may not be gold.
No, no! content I court my doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
The luck is theirs—the loss is mine,

And yet no loss at all;
The mighty ones of eldest time,
I ask where they did fall ?

Tell me the one
Who e'er could shun
Touch with oblivion's pall ?
All bear with me an equal doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
Brave temple and huge pyramid,

Hill sepulchred by art,
The barrow acre-vast where hid
Moulders some Nimrod's heart;

Each monstrous birth

Cumbers old earth,
But acts a voiceless part,
Resolving all to mine own doom,
The darkness of a nameless tomb.
Tradition with her palsied hand,

And purblind history, may

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