'Twas kind-for the lowe that your e'e kindled there Will burn-ay, an' burn, till that breast beat nae THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed, Though dark be our dwallin'-our happin' though His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, bare, An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care; For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before! I heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings, in homeless penury, Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me. I saw my true love fade-I heard her latest sigh I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye; Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave. Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed, And I'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread; For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me. Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair! to have been a man of ability. THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY was born February | years afterwards he was sole editor, proves him 4, 1799, at Paisley, the birthplace of so many poets and men of eminence. He was educated After Hervey's death, February 17, 1859, a at Trinity College, Cambridge, and devoted collection of his poems was made by his widow, some years to the study of law, but abandoned which, together with a memoir from her it and adopted the more congenial pursuit of practised pen, was published in the United literature. In 1824 Hervey published his States in 1867. Dr. D. M. Moir says:-"The poem "Australia," which contains many ex-genius of T. K. Hervey (for he has genius at quisite descriptive passages, showing that he once pathetic and refined) is not unallied to possessed the "inspiration and the faculty that of Pringle and Watts, but with a dash of divine." Five years later he issued The Tom Moore. He writes uniformly with taste Poetical Sketch-book, including a third edi- and elaboration, polishing the careless and tion of "Australia." His next volumes, pub- rejecting the crude; and had he addressed lished in the order named, were Illustrations himself more earnestly and more unreservof Modern Scripture, The English Helicon, edly to the task of composition, I have little and The Book of Christmas, every page of doubt, from several specimens he has occasionwhich affords a literary feast worthy of the ally exhibited, that he might have occupied a happy season. Mr. Hervey was also the author higher and more distinguished place in our of a satirical poem entitled "The Devil's Pro-poetical literature than he can be said to have gress," and many popular pieces contributed to the pages of various annuals edited by him. His connection with the London Athenæum, of which at its commencement and for several | have fully redeemed." attained. His 'Australia' and several of his lyrics were juvenile pledges of future excellence which maturity can scarcely be said to THE CONVICT SHIP. Morn on the waters! and, purple and bright, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale. The winds come around her in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, Night on the waves! and the moon is on high, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain! Who-as she smiles in the silvery light, Who, as he watches her silently gliding, "Tis thus with our life while it passes along, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. THE DEAD TRUMPETER. Wake, soldier! wake! thy war-horse waits Sleep, soldier! sleep! thy warfare o'er,Not thine own bugle's loudest strain Shall ever break thy slumbers more, With summons to the battle-plain; A trumpet note more loud and deep Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep. Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass now, Beyond the Grecian hero's boast,--Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow, Nor shrink before a myriad host,For head and heel alike are soundA thousand arrows cannot wound. Thy mother is not in thy dreams, She kissed thee at the cottage door, Sleep, soldier! let thy mother wait Than did thy clarion, on the gale, When last-and far away-she heard its lingering echoes fail! THE GONDOLA GLIDES. The gondola glides, Like a spirit of night, O'er the slumbering tides, In the calm moonlight. The star of the north Shows her golden eye, But a brighter looks forth From yon lattice on high! Her taper is out, And the silver beam Floats the maiden about Like a beautiful dream! And the beat of her heart Makes her tremble all o'er; And she lists with a start To the dash of the oar. But the moments are past, Holds her clasped to his breast; JAMES LAWSON was born in Glasgow, November 9, 1799. He completed his education at the university of his native city, and in 1815 emigrated to the United States, and entered the counting-house of a relative residing in New York. A few years later the failure of the firm of which Lawson was a partner induced him to turn his attention to literature. In company with James G. Brooks and John B. Skilman he established the Morning Courier, the first number of which appeared in 1827. In 1829 Lawson retired from this concern, and joined Amos Butler in the Mercantile Advertiser, with which he was associated till 1833. In 1830 he published a volume entitled Tales and Sketches by a Cosmopolite. His next work was Giordano: a Tragedy, an Italian state story of love and conspiracy, which was first performed at the Park Theatre, New York. The prologue was written by William Leggett, and the epilogue by P. M. Wetmore. Mr. Lawson has several times appeared before the public in connection with the stage. He was associated with the American poets Fitz- Greene Halleck and William Cullen Bryant on the committee which secured for Edwin Forrest the prize play of "Metamora" by John A. Stone, and he was also one of a similar committee which selected the prize play of "Nimrod Wildfire, or the Kentuckian in New York," by James K. Paulding. Since his retirement from the press in 1833 Mr. Lawson has engaged in the business of marine insurance, and is well known among the mercantile men of New York. He has been during the past fifty years a frequent contributor of criticisms, essays, tales, and verse to the periodicals of the day; and in 1857 printed for private circulation an octavo volume entitled Poems: Gleanings from Spare Hours of a Business Life, with the following dedication:- To my Children and their Mother, these poems, at their solicitation thus gathered together but not published, are affectionately inscribed by the father and husband, James Lawson." This handsome volume was followed in 1859 by Liddesdale, or the Border Chief: a Tragedy, which was also printed for private circulation. Mr. Lawson has for many years resided at Yonkers, on the Hudson, where he is well known as a public-spirited citizen and the genial entertainer of men of letters. THE APPROACH OF AGE. Well, let the honest truth be told! I feel that I am growing old, And, I have guessed for many a day, My sable locks are turning gray. At least, by furtive glances, I Some very silvery hairs espy, That thread-like on my temples shine, And fain I would deny are mine: While wrinkles creeping here and there, Some score my years, a few my care. The sports that yielded once delight Have lost all relish to my sight; But, in their stead, more serious thought A graver train of joys has brought, Which, while gay fancy is refined, Correct the taste, improve the mind. I meet the friends of former years, Beside me, on her rocking-chair, When o'er our vanished days we glance, And muse upon unnumbered things, But thank thee, Heaven, our lengthened life The youthful heart unwisely fears TO A LINTIE FRIGHTENED FROM HER NEST. Wee lintie, stay, an' dinna fear me, But i' your thorny shelter hear me, I hae nae come by ill inclined, But tired o' Glasgow's wark an' wile, |