I'LL sing of yon glen of red heather,

An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, Wha's a' made o' love-life thegither,

Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime; Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gie; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion. Is the bend o' her bonny eebree.

I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But, though neither lordly nor saucy,

Her answer was, "Laith wad I be!

I neither hae father nor mither,

Sage counsel or caution to gie; An' prudence has whisper'd me never To gang to the brakens wi' thee."

Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,

An' try your ain love to beguile? For ye are the richest young lady

That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile, that is blither than ony,

The bend o' your cheerfu' eebree,

An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me!

She turn'd her around, an' said, smiling,

While the tear in her blue eye shone clear, "You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, O, you hae valued it dear: Gae make out the lease, do not linger,

Let the parson indorse the decree; And then, for a wave o' your finger, I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

There's joy in the bright blooming feature,
When love lurks in every young line;
There's joy in the beauties of nature,

There's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,
And that is to love and to cherish

The fond little heart that 's our ain!

PERCY

BYSSHE SHELLEY.

1792-1822.

แ

"SHELLEY, like Byron, knew early what it was to love-almost all great poets have. It was in the summer of this year (1809) that he became acquainted with our cousin, Harriet Grove. Living in distant counties, they then met for the first time, since they had been children, at Field-place, where she was on a visit. She was born, I think, in the same year with himself.

'She was like him in lineaments-her eyes,

Her hair, her features, they said were like to his,

But softened all and tempered into beauty.'

After so long an interval, I still remember Miss Grove; and when I call to mind all the women I have ever seen, I know of none that surpassed, or that could compete with her. She was like one of Shakspeare's women-like some Madonna of Raphael. Shelley, in a fragment written many years after, seems to have had her in his mind's eye, when he writes:

'They were two cousins, almost like to twins,

Except that from the catalogue of sins

Nature had razed their love, which could not be,

But in dissevering their nativity;

And so they grew together like two flowers

Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers

Lull or awaken in the purple prime.'

Young as they were, it is not likely that they had entered into a formal engagement with each other, or that their parents looked upon their attachment, if it were mentioned, as any other than an intimacy natural to such near relations, or the mere fancy of a moment; and after they parted, though they corresponded regularly, there was nothing in the circumstance that called for observation. Shelley's love, however, had taken deep root, as proved by the dedication to Queen Mab, written in the following year." MEDWIN'S LIFE OF SHELLEY.

This poems-the dediatica to -Tax Ratio tesu-wwrinen in the satama df 157, a Viivi kaustre. Its stressed to Mrs. Sheley, née Mary Godwin, the daughter of William Godwa and Mary Waist.cert. Shelley met her in London about the time of his separate fie la fist wit. Harriet Westbrooke, and belleving that be had friend his walk aftity, persuaded her to elipe with him to the Continent. They saned from Dover on the 28th of July, 1814, and crossing over to France in a small boat proceeded to Netfihatel in Switzerland, where they remained a few days, and then returned to England. They lived together till the sticide of Shelley's wife, in November, 1816, when they were made man and wife according to the usages of the church. Their after history-Shelley's melancholy death by drowning in the Bay of Spezia, and Mrs. Shelley's successful literary career-is too well known to need recapitulation in this place.

So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

With thy belovéd name, thou Child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour

Is ended-and the fruit is at thy feet!

No longer where the woods to frame a bower
With interlacéd branches mix and meet,

Or where the sound like many voices sweet,
Water-falls leap among wild islands green,
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first
The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.

I do remember well the hour which burst
My spirit's sleep: A fresh May-dawn it was,
When I walked forth upon the glittering grass,
And wept, I knew not why: until there rose
From the near school-room, voices, that, alas!
Were but one echo from a world of woes,
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and their foes.

And then I clasped my hands and looked around,
But none was near to mock my streaming eyes,
Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground,
So without shame, I spake: "I will be wise,

And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies
Such power, for I grow weary to behold

The selfish and the mean still tyrannize