And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again,—but an altered man :

The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
And the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer :-
These are words that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother or orphan's ear,
Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
Half hidden by yonder willow;

There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
But who died on his own home-pillow.

THE

BARD OF ETTRICK AND HIS DAUGHTER.

HOGG.

"COME to my arms, my dear wee pet,

My gleesome, gentle Harriet !

The sweetest babe thou art to me,

That ever sat on parent's knee;

Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,

That care flies off whene'er thou'rt seen.

"Child of my age and dearest love!
A precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,

And tiny mind of mountain flame;

And hope that through life's chequered glade,-
That weary path which all must tread,―
Some credit from thy name will flow

To the old bard that loved thee so.
At least thou shalt not want thy meed,-
His blessings on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to Him whose sacred breath
Lightened the shades of life and death-
Who said with great benignity,
'Let little children come to me.'

""Tis very strange, my little dove!
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace,
While gazing on thy guiltless face;
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high birth and soul refined
Witheld her not from naming me,
E'en in life's last extremity.

Sweet babe! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere !

"Crow on, sweet child! thy wild delight
Is moved by visions heavenly bright:
What wealth from nature may'st thou gain,
With promptings high to heart and brain!
But hope is all-though yet unproved,
Thou art a shepherd's best beloved.

And now above thy brow so fair,
And flowing films of flaxen hair,
I lay my hand once more,

and frame

A blessing, in the holy name
Of that supreme Divinity

Who breathed a living soul in thee!"

TO THE SKYLARK.

WORDSWORTH.

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound? Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground?Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! That love-prompted strain ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing spring) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain! Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing, All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale the shady wood-
A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine.
Type of the wise, who soar-but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

KENNEDY.

I'LL tell thee the hour I love the best

When the sun sleeps upon ocean's breast,
When evening echoes repeat the tale
That's told by the wakeful nightingale,
When through the forest the green leaves lie
At rest on their branches droopingly,

And in worlds above,

No star is abroad but the star of love.

I'll tell thee the spot where I would be
When this holy hour descends on me―
By the deep glade in a lone retreat,
Where the sweetest flowers are sure to meet,
Where the jasmine, circled round and round,
Is still with the amorous woodbine found,
And no one is near

To dash from the wild rose the starting tear.

I'll tell thee the one I'd have to share,
At that blest time, in scene so fair,

The downcast glance of whose bashful eye
Would lend to twilight a softer dye,

Whose tone, half heard, in its passionate tale,
Would charm to silence the nightingale ;

'Tis thee, Mary! thee!

I'd have at that hour alone with me!

GERTRUDE;

Or, Fidelity till Death.

MRS. HEMANS.

HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes rais'd,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gaz'd—

All that she lov'd was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

"My Rudolph, say not so! This is no time to quit thy side,

Peace, peace! I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it?-mine is here

I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power

To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honour'd love and true,

Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,

Whose rest shall soon be won,"