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Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring
To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high,
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the Seraphim ?

NIGHT.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose;
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams,

The gay romance of life;
When truth that is and truth that seems

Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.
Night the tir

to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep

The joys of other years ;

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Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perish'd young, like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch;

On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care ;

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus midst his slumbering host
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul
Takes fight, and with expanding views

Beyond the starry pole;
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light,
Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,

So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath

From sin and suffering cease;
Think of Heaven's bliss, give the sign,
To parting friends :—such death be mine!

THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT.

When night sits on the earth, and tower and town
Are sleeping in the sea of silvery light,
That poureth from the moon who gazeth down,
Bathing earth's emerald wheels in glory bright;
When e'en the night wind and the restless sea
Wander in silence, by the hour spell-bound;
When e'en the rustling of the shadowy tree
Is hush'd—the welkin bringeth forth a sound ;-
It is not in the sea, nor in the air;
It is not on the valley, nor the hill;
There comes no warning from the sepulchre,
And yet the wing of silence is not still!
Is it the music of some distant sphere
Upon the lonely moonshine clearly borne ?
For faintly comes the wild sound on my ear,
As when together sung the stars of morn.
I look around—still is each gloomy tree-
The waves at rest—the wind's dread flag is furi'd;
As if, so still the aery minstrelsy,
It were the day-sounds of another world.
So once the holy bird sang all night long,
Till broke the day-star's beam on Bethlehem ;
His red uprising stay'd the fearful song,
Blazing on dewy morning's diadem.
Is it the rushing so of years to come,
Thrown from the bosom of the endless sea,
Billows of time, that on the outskirts roam.
Of the dread ocean of eternity ?

THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT.

10
Is it the fairy band's unearthly sound?
Or spirits whispering in the middle air?
Or swinging chains by which the stars are bound,
To guide their golden chariots every where?
Perchance 'tis Fancy's voicethe sound of dreams,
Or the fiend slumbering in the aconite;
We

may not know-yet to the bard it seems The voi e of conscience in the ear of night.

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 dream'd, must feel and

dream no more; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd

my

soul at last, And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friend

ship 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!

HIERE'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 firin 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.

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