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12 HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISII 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 thesky; Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought

of thee. :

the tree,

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!

WEEP NOT FOR HER!

BY D. M. MOIR.

WEEP not for her! 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 link'd shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! She died in early youth,

Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,

And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews. Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze, Her wine of life was not run to the lees:

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay

It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,
She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven:

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel

The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,

To wander sad down age's veil of tears,
As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship’s tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! She is an angel now,

And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,

Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes,

14

WEEP NOT FOR HER,

Victorious over death to her appears,
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years :

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine

Of pleasant thoughts soft as the scent of flowers, Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:

Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,

But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back, So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate and lead thee on:

Weep not for her!

BETTER MOMENTS.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

My mother's voice! how oft doth creep

Its cadence on my lonely hours !
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,

Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer

While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air

Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood Aee,
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.

My heart is harder, and perhaps

My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse

Of a few miserable years ;
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
I have been out at eventide

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,

And night had on her silver wing ;When bursting leaves and diamond grass,

And waters leaping to the light, And all that makes the pulsés pass

With wilder fleetness throng'd the night; When all was beauty—then have I

With friends on whom my love is flung Like myrrh on wings of Araby,

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. And when the beautiful spirit there

Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air

Like the light dropping of the rain;
And resting on some silver star

The spirit of a bended knee,
I've pour’d her low and fervent prayer

That our eternity might be
To rise in Heaven like stars at night,
And tread a living path of light!
I have been on the dewy hills

When night was stealing from the dawn And mist was on the waking rills,

And tints were delicately drawn In the gray east--when birds were waking

With a low murmur in the trees, A melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze, And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance

BETTER MOMENTS.

16
And when the sun sprang gloriously

And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree

The arrows from his subtle quiverI say a voice has thrilld me then,

Heard on the still and rushing light, Or creeping from the silent glen

Like words from the departing night, Hath stricken me, and I have press'd

On the wet grass my fever'd brow, And pouring forth the earliest

First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow, Have felt my mother's spirit rush

Upon me as in by-past years,
And yielding to the blessed gush

Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up—the gay, the wild-
As humble as a very child.

THE MAY-FLOWERS OF LIFE.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

Suggested by the Author's having found a branch of May in a

volume of Burns's Poems, which had been deposited there, by a Friend, several years before.

MEMORIAL frail of youthful years,

Of hopes as wild and bright as they, Thy faint, sweet perfume call up tears İ

may not, cannot wish away! Thy wither'd leaves are as a spell

To bring the sainted past before me; And long-lost, visions loved too well,

In all their truth restore me.

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