THE CAIRNGORM.

A HIGHLAND HUSBAND'S Gift,

WEAR thy mountain's diamond, fairest !

In thy waving hair;

It will noblest seem, and rarest
If it sparkles there;

For only this dark gem can vie

With those brown tresses' burnished dye,
And well the elves that guard it know,

If it might touch thy spotless brow,
For ever in thy memory

Thy wedded love would living be.

Or hanging on thy ear, dearest,
A moment let it shine;
Then in every voice thou hearest
Shall seem a sound of mine-
Yet no ;-for never by the tone
Of silver words was true love known;
I would not tax thy soul to give
The fondness that on words can live.

But place it on thy hand, sweetest,
Clasped with the holy gold,

And when a stranger's hand thou meetest,
Thine shall be winter-cold;

And thou shalt lute and tablet take

In bower or chamber for my sake;

And it shall teach thy pen to shew

How thought should speak when speech is true.

Then hide it in thy breast, dearest !

If it be pure as fair,

When to thy heart this gem is nearest,
My image shall be there;

For it has spells more deep and strong
When hid its native snows among;
And it shall have most power to bless
Where all is power and holiness.
European Magazine.

THE POET.

V.

Oн say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,
That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt;
Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire,

Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.

It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray

Of sunset can image the soul of the bard;

The light of the evening around them may play,

But the frost-work beneath is, though bright, cold and hard.

'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows,

Where the minstrel may find his own semblance pourtrayed;
The red fires that gleam on the summit are those
That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed.

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings,
Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;
No note of wild music is swept from the strings,
But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,
That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;
Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;
For the pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

TO THE MEMORY OF IDA.

Oh! what are thousand living loves

To one, that cannot quit the dead.-BYRON.

WELL-though the clouds of sorrow haste, With darkening gloom, and threatening roll, To blight existence to a waste,

And shut out sunshine from my soul, Departed Ida! rather far

My musing thought would dwell on thee, Than join the mirthful, and the jar

Of voices loud, and spirits free.

Sad alteration!-Here alone,

Where we so oft together sate,

With hearts, where love's commingling tone Had linked us to one mutual fate:

I gaze

around me where art thou,

Whose glance was sunshine to the spot? These roses bloomed, as they bloom now, But thou art-where-I see thee not!

Oh! never more-oh! never more
This earth again shall smile for me!
I'll listen to the tempest's roar,—
Or gaze along the stormy sea,-
And from the sunshine I will hide,—
But, as the moon in silver gleams,
I'll lean me o'er the vessel's side,

And see thee in my waking dreams.

Then welcome be the doom that calls
To foreign climes my wandering way :
These echoing walks and empty halls,
The blosmy lilac on its spray.—
The lily in its innocence,-

The fleur-de-lis with purple vest,—
Pine for thee, vanished far from hence,

Removed from earth, and laid to rest.

Oh! do not breathe on Ida's lute

"Twould make her vanished form appear, Since Ida's breathing now is mute

Since Ida's voice I cannot hear. All music, and all melody,

The azure stream, and leafy tree,

The glories of the earth and sky

Are stripped of half their charms for me!

Then welcome be the flapping sail,

And welcome be the stormy main,

And never may the breezes fail,

But when they bring me back again!

And I will wander o'er the deep,

And brave the tempest's threatening harms, Since not a shore to which we sweep,

To me can proffer Ida's arms!

Oh! Ida, ever lost and dear,

Soon come the day, and come it must,
When I shall seek thy happier sphere,
And leave this perishable dust.
Then grief shall flee my troubled eyes,
And gloom forsake my drooping heart,
And through the fields of Paradise

We two shall roam, and never part.
Blackwood's Magazine.

NAUTA.

FRAGMENT.

A SOLITUDE

Of green and silent beauty, just a home
Where I could wish to weep my life away
In utter loneliness, and never more
Hear human voice, or look on human face.
It is a secret place among the hills:
Narrow and dark the valley lies below,

And not a taint of earth is on the air,

Which the lip drinks pure as the stream whose source
Is hidden here,—large rocks have girthed it in ;
All palaces for the eagle are their sides,
Safe or far safer than a sanctuary,-

For even that, though shielded by God's name,
Man holds not sacred. Here at least his power
Is neither felt nor feared. The chamois rests
When harassed, as the powerless ever are,
It 'scapes the cruel hunter. Small as still,
A skilful archer's bow would send the shaft
Across its utmost boundary, and half

Is covered with dark pines, which in the spring
Send forth sweet odours, even as they felt

As parents do, rejoicing o'er their children

In the green promise of their youthful shoots,

The spreading of their fresh and fragrant leaves.

The other part is thinly scattered o'er

With dwarf oaks, stinted both in leaves and growth.

And in the midst there are two stately firs,

The one dark in its hoary foilage, like

A warrior armed for battle; but the next

Has lost its leafy panoply, the bark

Stripped from the trunk, the boughs left black and bare By some fierce storm to which it would not bend :Like a high spirit, proud, though desolate.

At one end is a cavern, musical

With falling waters: roof, and floor, and walls

Are set with sparry gems, snow turned to treasure;