10 THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT. Is it the fairy band's unearthly sound? Or swinging chains by which the stars are bound, Perchance 'tis Fancy's voice-the sound of dreams, HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. HERE'S to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee, For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free; For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace, For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face; For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be, Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though my glow of youth is o'er; And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream no more; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled my soul at last, And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friendship past; Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,— Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee! HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. 11 Here's to thee, my Scottish Lassie !—though I know that not for me Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free; Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by, Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful eye; Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,— Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! when I meet thee in the throng Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely along, I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form, As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm; And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee, And for once, my Scottish lassie! dance a giddy dance with thee. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-I shall think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven; I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every wind that grieves, As it whirls from the abandon'd oak, its wither'd autumn leaves; In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea, I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often think of thee. 12 HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-in my sad and lonely hours, The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers ; Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye, Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky; Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie ! is the lonely thought of thee. Here's to thee my Scottish lassie !-though my muse must soon be dumb, (For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, are come,) Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high, And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye; Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for me, Still to thee, my Scottish lassie ! still I'll drink a health to thee. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee; May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now! And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be, Still a health, my Scottish lassie ! still a hearty health to thee ! X WEEP NOT FOR HER! WEEP not for her! BY D. M. MOIR. Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die, Like long linked shadeless months of polar light, Weep not for her! She died in early youth, Weep not for her! Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay She passed, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven : Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel Weep not for her! She is an angel now, 14 WEEP NOT FOR HER. Victorious over death to her appears, Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe, And from earth's low defilements keep thee back, BETTER MOMENTS. BY N. P. WILLIS. My mother's voice! how oft doth creep Or dew to the unconscious flowers. Her gentle tone comes stealing by, And years, and sin, and manhood flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The book of nature, and the print Of beauty on the whispering sea, Give aye to me some lineament Of what I have been taught to be. |