sequently published; but it was not until he produced his "con's Wake" that his fame was established. He became a contributor to "Blackwood's Magazine," and John Wilson, by introducing him frequently into the "Noctes," put the key-stone upon his popularity. Hogg wrote some magnificent songs. His taste, however, led him more to romance and legendary story: to fairy lore and the realms of fancy. These subjects he treated with the feeling of a poet and the imagination of a painter. His "Kilmeny" is a fairy tale worthy of Spenser. If he had not the strength of Burns, he was more playful and inventive, and as a master of rhythm he was unequalled. He died at Altrive Lake, on the Yarrow, November, 1835.]

STRANGER of Heaven! I bid thee hail!
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale,

Broad pennon of the King of Heaven!
Art thou the flag of woe and death,
From angel's ensign-staff unfurled ?
Art thou the standard of His wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid, sinful world?
No, from that pure pellucid beam,
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem,

Bright herald of the eternal throne!

Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale-
peace to man, or judgment dire,
Stranger of Heaven! I give thee hail!

Or

Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the Wain?
And when thou scal'st the milky way—
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue !

O! on thy rapid prow to glide!

To coast through fields of air with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside-
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea!

To brush the embers from the sun,
The icicles from off the pole;
Then far to other systems run,

Where other moons and planets roll!
Stranger of Heaven! O let thine eye
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;

Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient beam!

And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern arch at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the grey portals of the morn.

THE MINISTRY OF MAY.

T.K. HERVEY.

[Thomas Kibble Hervey was a native of Manchester, born 1804. For many years he was the editor of the Athenæum. He was a frequent contributor to the annuals, and published "Australia, and other Poems," 1824; "The Poetical Sketch Book," 1829, "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," 1832, "The English Helicon," 1841, &c. Died 1859.]

THE earth is one great temple, made

For worship everywhere;

And its flowers are the bells, in glen and glade,

That ring the heart to prayer.

A solemn preacher is the breeze,
At noon or twilight dim-
The ancient trees give homilies,
The river hath a hymn.

For the city bell takes seven days

To reach the townsman's ear,
But he who kneels in Nature's ways
Hath Sabbath all the yea.,

A worship with the cowslip born,

For March is Nature's Sabbath morn-
And hawthorn-chimes, with higher day,
Call
up the votaries of May!

Out, then, into her holy ways!

The lark is far on high;

Oh! let no other song than thine

Be sooner in the sky!

If beauty to the beautiful

Itself be gladness, given,

No happier being should move than thou
Beneath the vault of heaven.

With thee 'tis spring, as with the world,-
When hopes make sport of fears,

And clouds that gather round the heart
Fall off at once in tears,

And in thy spirit, one by one,

The flowers are gathering to the sun.

Away unto the woodland paths!

And yield that heart of thine

To hear the low, sweet oracles
At every living shrine !

Truths such as guide the comet cars
On fiery mission driven,

Or in their beauty light the stars
Along the floor of heaven:
One choral theme, below, above,
One anthem near and far-
The daisy singing in the grass,

As through the cloud the star-
And to the wind that sweeps the sky

The roses making low reply.

For the meanest wild-bud breathes to swell,

Upon immortal ears

So hear it, thou, in grove or dell !—

The music of the spheres.

AN OLD MAN'S IDYLL.

RICHARD REALF.

[Richard Realf was born at Uckfield, in Sussex, in 1835. His poetical talents attracting the attention of a lady at Brighton, in whose service he resided, she was induced to publish for him a volume of his poems, "Guesses at the Beautiful," by which he obtained some local repute. Since then he appears to have led a roving life; he was with John Brown at Harper's Ferry, was reported dead, returned to England, and after being seen at several places in his native county, suddenly disappeared.]

By the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days

Of the beautiful early summer weather,

When skies were purple and breath was praise-
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds,
And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,
And trees with voices Eolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;

And lighter than any linnet's feather

The burdens of Being on us weighed.

And love's sweet miracles o'er us threw
Mantles of joy outlasting Time,
And up from the rosy morrows grew

A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.

In the gardens of Life we strayed together,
And the luscious apples were ripe and red,
And the languid lilac and honeyed heather
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed.
And under the trees the angels walked,
And up in the air a sense of wings
Awed us tenderly while we talked
Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together,
Watching the waving harvests grow;
And under the benison of the Father

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro
And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,
Broidered fairer the emerald banks:
And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,
And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us,
Neither myself nor my darling guessed;
Only we knew that something crowned us
Out from the heavens with crowns of rest;
Only we knew that something bright
Lingered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of something higher than humanhood.

O the riches love doth inherit!
Ah, the alchemy which doth change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit
Into sanctities rare and strange!
My flesh is feeble and dry and old,
My darling's beautiful hair is grey;
But our elixir and precious gold

Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us,
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;
But we have a secret which doth show us
Wonderful rainbows in the rain.

And we hear the tread of the years move by,
And the sun is setting behind the hills;

But my darling does not fear to die,

And I am happy in what God wills.

1

So we sit by our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago;
Then it was balmy summer weather,

And now the valleys are laid in snow.
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,
The wind blows cold, 'tis growing late;
Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves,
I and my darling, and we wait.

GILDEROY.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[Born, 1777; died, 1844.]

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me;
I hear the dead-note of the drum,
I mark the gallows-tree!

The bell has toll'd-it shakes my heart-
The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame ?

No bosom trembles for thy doom,
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!

Oh! Gilderoy, bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart!

Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter-garb was trim,
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue!
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!