Through arches of wreathed rose they take their way,

He the fresh Morning, she the better May,
'Twixt jocund hearts and voices jubilant
And unseen gods that guard on either hand,
And blissful tears, and tender smiles that fall
On her dear head-great summer over all!
While Envy, of the triumph half afraid,
Slinks, like a dazzled serpent, to the shade.

VII.

Softly the loud peal dies,

In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys,

Tender tones;

But clearer comes the wildbird's eager call, While the robed pomp is streaming out of sight,

But a full sunburst showers the festival,
And crowns farewell with light.

"Farewell! and while the summers wax and

wane,

In children's children may ye live again;
Oh! may your beauty from its ashes rise,
Your strength be theirs, your virtues light
their eyes!

Your Charity-green vine that clasps the

stem

Of wither'd Sorrow-bloom and spread in them;
And while soft mosses clothe the forest tree,
May Might wed Mercy; Pride, Humility.
"Farewell! and like the echoes of these chimes
May your pure concord stir the aftertimes;
Your story be a signal lamp to guide
The generations from the waste of pride;
Like the sun beam that flows before your

path,

Your faith right onward scatter clouds of

wrath;

And live, oh, live, in songs that shall be sung, The first true hearts that made the old world

young!

Farewell! and other tongues took up the sound

As though the long-lost Golden Age were found: That shout of joy went up among the hills And reach'd a holy hermit bow'd with ills; And he breathed up a solitary prayer From his pale lips into the sunny air"Oh! that on those young hearts, this day, might rest,

Father, thy blessing"-and they shall be blest!

VIII.

The winds have hush'd their wings,
The merry bells are still,
No more the linnet sings

On the hill;

But tender maidens linger with soft eyes Under the dim gleam of a throbbing star, Then close their lattices with low sweet sighs,

Light as the dewless air.

With glittering locks, liko summer, he

descends

'Mid courteous aspects-flatterers, feers, and friends;

Brothers and uncles on his footsteps wait Aunts, sisters, cousins, that must bow to Fate;

She takes their forced welcome, and their wiles

For her own Truth, and lifts her head, and smiles;

They shall not change that Truth by any art, Oh! may her love change them before they part.

The minstrels wait them at the palace-gate, She hears the flood, and sees the flash of State;

For all the mirth, the tumult, and the song, Her fond thoughts follow the departing

For, for the maid who wakes my muse,
In heart so pure, in face so fair,
It needful was that I should choose
The purest and the fairest there.

At length, beneath the sheltering shade
Of roses, hiding from the light,
By their own fragrant sweets betray'd,
These white pinks caught my wandering
sight.

So chastely delicate their mien,

So sweetly rich their fragrance rare"Bright flow'rs!" I cried, " ye are, I ween, The purest and the fairest there."

I cull'd them, for 'twas known to me,

Thy sire would hold a feast to-night,
And that I there should meet with thee,
Amid the lords and ladies bright.
And still, in simplest garb array'd,

I find thee here, as everywhere;
Though bright the throng, beloved maid!
The purest and the fairest there."

Take them; and may thy breast be found
As free as they from any blot,
And shed its fragrant virtues round

On those who own a lowlier lot.
So shalt thou, when from death's repose
Thou wakest, heav'nly joys to share,
Still shine amid the throng that shows
The purest and the fairest there.

Peter Spencer.

1808.-SENT WITH A ROSE TO ROSF

Go, blushing flow'r!
And tell her this from me,
That in the bow'r,

From which I gather'd thee,
At evening I will be.

And further tell,
In tearing thee away,
A petal fell;

And, falling, seem'd to say-
"Thy rose is hurt to-day."

And, while I stripp'd
Thy stem of leaves below,

A dew-drop slipp'd,
Slipp'd on my hand, to show-
"And thou hast dealt the blow."

But, while I stand,

The tear, with subtle art,

Dries on my hand;

As wishing to impart

"And thou canst heal the smart."

Then bid her fly,

When sun-set skirts the West,

To me, that I,

Upon my happy breast,

May soothe her own to rest.

Peter Spencer.

1809.-A THOUGHT AMONG THE ROSES.

The Roses grew so thickly,

I never saw the thorn,
Nor deem'd the stem was prickly,
Until my hand was torn.

Thus, worldly joys invite us,

With rosy-colour'd hue; But, ere they long delight us, We find they prick us too. Peter Spencer.

1810.-MANY, MANY YEARS AGO.

Oh, my golden days of childhood,
Many, many years ago!
Ah! how well do I remember

What a pride it was to know
When my little playmates muster'd
On this old familiar spot,
To select their infant pastimes,

That my name was ne'er forgot;
When with merry, rosy faces,

They so eagerly would come,
Boasting of the longest top-string,
Or a top of loudest hum;
Or, as proud and prancing horses,
Chase each other to and fro,.
In my golden days of childhood,
Many, many years ago!

Oh, my balmy days of boyhood,
Many, many years ago!
When I ranged at will the wild woods,
For the berry or the sloe;
Or the gentle blue-eyed violet,

Traced by its own perfume sweet;
Or with light and cautious footstep
Sought the linnet's snug retreat;
Or with little blooming maidens

To the nutting groves repair'd,
And in warmth of purest boy-love,
The rich clusters with them shared;
Or when hoary-headed winter

Brought his welcome frost and snow,
How we throng'd the frozen streamlets,
Many, many years ago!

Then my days of dawning manhood,

Many, many years ago!

When the future seem'd all brightness

Lit with Love's enchanting glow; When what hopes and blissful day-dreams Would my buoyant bosom crowd, As I forth led my beloved one,

She as fair as I was proud;

Led her forth with lightsome footstep,
Where some happy rustic throng
To old Robin's merry music

Would so gaily dance along.

Or when round came joyous Christmas
Oft beneath the mistletoe,

Iave I toy'd with blushing maidens,
Many, many years ago!

Ah, ye golden days! departed,

Yet full oft on memory's wing
Ye return like some bright vision,
And both joy and sorrow bring.
Where are now my boy companions,

Those dear friends of love and truth? Death hath seal'd the lips of many,

Fair and beautiful in youth. Robin's lute has long been silent, And the trees are old and bare; Silent too the rippling brooklets,

The old playground is not there; Time hath stolen my fair one's beauty, And he soon will strike the blow That will break those ties that bound us Many, many years ago!

The beauteous pansies rise
In purple, gold, and blue,
With tints of rainbow hue

Mocking the sunset skies;
The modest violets,
Under the hedge-row sets,

Lift up their soft blue eyes;
And the meek daisies show
Their breasts of satin snow,

Bedeck'd with tiny stars of gold 'mid perfume sighs.

Moon-dyed primroses spread

Their leaves, her path to cheer,

As her step draweth near;

And the bronzed wallflowers shed

Rich incense; summer hours
Are by the sweet bell-flowers

Usher'd to life, and fed

By the young zephyrs' wing,
Who elfin music ring,

Luring the bees from out their thyme-wove fragrant bed.

From their calm limpid cells
Fair Naiades arise,

With laughing, sunny eyes;

Casting their witching spells
The beauteous one to greet,
And lave her ivory feet;

At their bright crystal wells
Young buds pout forth their leaves-
Earth a green garland weaves-

New life and joy from Nature's lovely bosom swells.

She comes with smiles upon her blushing cheek

With fragrance breathing from her rosy lips;
A paragon of beauty-a desire-
An angel she of gladness.

Thomas John Ouseley.

1812.-THE SEASONS OF LIFE.

SPRING.

I.

The soft green grass is growing,
O'er meadow and o'er dale;
The silvery founts are flowing

Upon the verdant vale;
The pale snowdrop is springing,
To greet the glowing sun;
The primrose sweet is flinging
Perfume the fields among;
The trees are in the blossom,
The birds are in their song,
As spring upon the bosom

Of Nature's born along.

So the dawn of human life doth green and verdant spring;

It doth little ween the strife that after years will bring;

Like the snowdrop it is fair, and like the primrose sweet;

But its innocence can't scare the blight from its retreat.

SUMMER.

II.

The full ripe corn is bending
In waves of golden light;
The new-mown hay is sending
Its sweets upon the night;
The breeze is softly sighing,
To cool the parched flowers;
The rain, to see them dying,
Weeps forth its gentle showers;

The merry fish are playing, Adown yon crystal stream; And night from day is straying, As twilight gives its gleam.

And thus manhood, in its prime, is full and ripe and strong;

And it scarcely deems that time can do its beauty wrong.

Like the merry fish we play adown the stream of life;

And we reck not of the day that gathers what is rife.

AUTUMN

III.

The flowers all are fading,

Their sweets are rifled now; And night sends forth her shading Along the mountain brow; The bee hath ceased its winging To flowers at early morn;

The birds have ceased their singing,

Sheaf'd is the golden corn;

The harvest now is gather'd,

Protected from the clime;

The leaves are sear'd and wither'd, That late shone in their prime.

Thus when fourscore years are gone o'er the frail life of man,

Time sits heavy on his throne, as near his brow we scan;

Like the autumn leaf that falls, when winds the branches wave,

Like night-shadows daylight palls, like all, he finds a grave.

WINTER.

1813.-YE'RE A' THE WARL' TO ME, LASSIE!

Oh, ye're a' the warl' to me, lassie!
Ye're a' the warl' to me;

This heart shall cease to beat for aye,
E're it proves false to thee!

Oh, the soldier loves his country's cause,
And he stands or falls for Fame;

The statesman courts the loud applause
That bodes a deathless name;

In Pleasure's train the thoughtless sweep;
The miser loves his gold;

But they're nought to me, if I could keep That love that thou hast told.

For, Ye're a' the warl', &c.

Can I forget that gloamin' sweet,
On the banks o' bonny Dee,

Where Nature's wildest beauties meet
To deck the flowery lea;

I wadna gie, I fondly vow,

For gem o' earth or sea,

That sprig o' thyme, though wither'd now, Ye puid and gied to me!

For, Ye're a' the warl', &c.

Blow, favouring winds, and fill those sails
That waft me from this strand,
To streams and glens and heath'ry hills,
My own-my native land!

In foreign climes no more I'll rove,

But, 'neath our trysting tree, With wither'd flower, I'll claim that love Ye, trusting, vow'd to me!

For, Ye're a' the warl', &c.

T. M. Gemmet.