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Bees, birds, and little twinkling rills
So merrily did chime;

The year was in its sweet spring-tide,
And I was in my prime.

I've never heard such music since,
From every bending spray;
I've never pluck'd such primroses
Set thick on bank and brae ;
I've never smelt such violets
As all that pleasant time

I found by every hawthorn-root-
When I was in my prime.

Yon merry down, so black and bare,
Was gorgeous then, and gay,
With golden gorse, bright blossoming
As none blooms now-a-day.
The blackbird sings but seldom now
Up there in the old lime;

Where hours and hours he used to sing→
When I was in my prime.

Such cutting winds came never then,
To pierce one through and through;
More softly fell the silent shower,
More balmily the dew.

The morning mist and evening haze
(Unlike this cold, grey rime)
Seem'd woven warm of golden air-
When I was in my prime.

The blackberries, so mawkish now,
Were finely flavour'd then;

And nuts-such reddening clusters ripe

I ne'er shall pull again.

Nor strawberries, blushing bright-as rich As fruits of sunniest clime;

How all is alter'd for the worse,

Since I was in my prime !

SLEEP.

D. K.

Or all the gifts on mortal man,
By boundless love bestow'd,
To soothe him 'neath sin's gloomy ban,
And cheer his thorny road,-
Sleep! holy, soul-subduing sleep!
To me seems dearest, best.

Oh! priceless boon, the soul to steep
and dreamless rest!

In pure

What blessing, to bid mem'ry pause,
And racking thought be still,

Whilst Sleep her mystic curtain draws
O'er past and present ill!

She comes to calm the burning brow,
To soothe the aching heart,
To check the pearly tears that flow,
To steal from grief her smart.
She comes to hush the bitter sigh,
To cool the fever'd brain;
The worn soul in repose may lie,
For she brings rest from pain.
She comes to spread a veil of love
O'er each grief-stricken breast;
By Mercy sent from heaven above,
Her angel mission-Rest!

LACHIN Y GAIR.

LORD BYRON.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes! ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the Rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Yet, Caledonia! beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade:
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. "Ill-starr'd, though brave, did not visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause ?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause; Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber,

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse e'er I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved on the mountains afar! Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.

LOVE TO PARENTS.

NOEL.

To honour those who gave us birth,
To cheer their age, to feel their worth,
Is God's command to human kind,
And own'd by every grateful mind.

Trace then the tender scenes of old,
And all our infant days unfold;
Yield back to sight the mother's breast,
Watchful to lull the child to rest.

Survey her toil, her anxious care,
To form the lisping lips to prayer;
To win for God the yielding soul,
And all its ardent thoughts control.

Nor hold from mem'ry's glad review
The fears which all the father knew;
The joy that mark'd his thankful gaze
As virtue crown'd maturer days.

When press'd by sickness, pain, or grief,
How anxious they to give relief!
Our dearest wish they hold their own;
Till ours return'd, their peace had flown.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

OH! yonder is the well-known spot, My dear, my long-lost, native home! Oh! welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam!

Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband:

But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
Of distant climes the false report
It lured me from my native land;
It bade me rove-my sole support,
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,

That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.
Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall wile away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband:
But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

THERE ARE KIND HEARTS EVERY-WHERE. W. S. RIDPATH.

Он, call it not a desert,

This beauteous world below;
Say not, no flower of sympathy

It may

For misery here doth grow,
be affliction 's tried thee,
And the trial's been hard to bear;
Yet speak not so untruly,-

There are kind hearts every-where!

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