It tells of pale, mysterious bones,
Buried below the crumbling stones;
But the shadow of that pile of slaughter
Lies breasted on the stirless water,
As if no mortal hand had blent
Its old, unearthly lineament.

A wizard tarn is gray Loch Skene! There are two islands sown within: Both are like, as like the other As brother to his own twin-brother; Only a birch bends o'er the one, Where the kindred isle hath none, The tresses of that weeping tree Hang down in their humility.

'Tis whisper'd of an eyrie there, Where a lonely eagle pair

In the silver moonlight came,

To feed their young by the holy flame;
And at morn they mounted far and far,
Towards the last surviving star.
Only the forsaken nest

Sighs to the sea-winds from the west,
As if they told in their wandering by
How the rightful lord of its sanctuary
Mourneth his fallen mate alone
On a foamy Atlantic stone.

Never hath the quiet shore
Echoed the fall of silver oar,

Nor the waters of that tarn recoil'd
From the light skiff gliding wild;
But the spiritual cloud that lifted
The quiet moon, and dimly drifted
Away in tracery of snow,

Threw its image on the pool below,
Till it glided to the shaded shore,
Like a bark beneath the moveless oar.

Out at the nethermost brink there gushes A playful stream from its ark of rushes, It leaps like a wild fawn from the mountains, Nursing its life with a thousand fountains, It kisses the heath-flower's trembling bell, And the mosses that love its margin well.

Fairy beings, one might dream, Look from the breast of that silver stream, Fearless, holy, and blissful things, Flashing the dew-foam from their wings, As they glide away, away for ever, Borne seaward on some stately river.

That silver brook, it windeth on Over slabs of fretted stone, Till it cometh to the forehead vast Of those gorgon rocks, that cast.

Their features many a fathom under,
And, like a launch through surge of thunder,
From the trembling ledge it flings
The treasures of a thousand springs;
As if to end their blissful play,
And throw the spell of its life away.

Like a pillar of Parian stone
That in some old temple shone,
Or a slender shaft of living star,
Gleams that foam-fall from afar;
But the column is melted down below
Into a gulf of seething snow,

And the stream steals away from its whirl of hoar,

As bright and as lovely as before.

There are rainbows in the morning sun, Many a blushing trembling one, Arches of rarest jewelry,

Where the elfin fairies be,

Through the glad air dancing merrily.

Such is the brook, so pure, so glad, That sparkled high and bounded mad, From the quiet waters, where

It took the form of a thing so fair.

Only it mocks the heart within, To wander by the wild Loch Skene, At cry of moorcock, when the day Gathers his legions of light away.

For the sadness of a fallen throne Reigns when the golden sun hath gone, And the tarn and the hills and the misted

stream

Are shaded away to a mournful dream.

THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE.

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of the spring

On the angler's trysting-tree?
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey-bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,

Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!
Are there bees at our willow tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering

Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!

Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring-
To the angler's trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!

Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?

THE BRITISH OAK.

The oak is Britain's pride!
The lordliest of trees,
The glory of her forest-side,

The guardian of her seas!

Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide To brave the wintry breeze.

Our hearts shall never quail

Below the servile yoke, Long as our seamen trim the sail,

And wake the battle smokeLong as they stem the stormy gale On planks of British oak!

Then in its native mead

The golden acorn lay,

And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed
In some far future day!

Oh! plant the acorn tree

Upon each Briton's grave; So shall our island ever be

The island of the braveThe mother-nurse of liberty, And empress o'er the wave!

LET ITHER ANGLERS. Let ither anglers choose their ain, An' ither waters tak' the lead; O' Hieland streams we covet nane, But gie to us the bonnie Tweed! An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn

That steals into its valley fair

The streamlets that at ilka turn

Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.

The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,

An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine

Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills; An Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,

An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed; Their kindred valleys a' unite

Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.

There's no a hole abune the Crook,

Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,

That daunders through the flowery heath, But ye may fin' a subtle trout,

A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot, Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.

Frae Holylee to Clovenford,

A chancier bit ye canna hae, So gin ye tak' an angler's word,

Ye'd through the whins an' ower the brae, An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand

Yer birzy hackles black and red;
The saft sough o' a slender wand
Is meetest music for the Tweed!

MUSINGS ON THE BANKS OF THE TEVIOT.

With thy windings, gentle Teviot!

Through life's summer I have travelledShared in all thy merry gambols,

All thy mazy course unravell'd.

Every pool I know and shallow,
Every circumstance of channel,
Every incident historic

Blent with old or modern annal,

Which, within thy famous valley,

Dealt a mercy or a sorrowEvery song and every legend

Which has passed into its morrow.

Who has loved thee, artless river,
Best of all thy single wooers?
Of thy wayward, witching waters,
Who most ardent of pursuers?
On thy banks, a constant dreamer,
Sitting king among his fancies,
Casting all his wealth of musing

Into thy tried course of chances.

Name another in thy prattle

Who has done his service betterTendering or accepting tribute,

Creditor as well as debtor?

Out of thy redundant plenty,
On the lap of living mercies,
I have woven a votive offering-
Shaped a wreath of simple verses.
Every generous wish attend thee!

And, among thy generous wishers, Takes its place with bard and scholar The more lowly band of fishers.

To that lowly band belonging, In its pleasures the partaker, More I feel of true contentment

Than the lord of many an acre.

Still, with glowing virtues, Teviot!

Graces, joys, and forms of beauty, Fill the valley of thy holding

Roll in dignity of duty!

Forward roll, and link thy fortunes

With fair Tweed-thine elder sister! Lyne and Leithen, Ettrick, Leader,

In their earlier turns have kissed her.

Welcome, more than all the others,

Thou! whose fulness of perfection Finds a grateful recognition In this symbol of affection!

So entwined, Tweed glides exultant,
As a joyful burden bearing
All thy passionate confidings-

The rich lore of love and daring

Which to ballad and romances,

Oft uncouthly, bard committed, Guided by thy chime or plaining, To the rhythm which best befitted.

In the arms of Tweed enfolded,

Followed still by my devotion, Thou art separate to the vision, Wending on thy way to ocean.

Even there, I see the spirit

Of whose life partook the willow, And whose love laved slope and meador, Moving o'er the restless billow.

In the salmon which ascends theeAll arrayed in gorgeous scaling-

A proud legate I distinguish

From the court of Neptune hailing;

From the kingdom of the Trident, Bearing to his native river Noble gifts of self-devotion, Tribute to the Tribute Giver!

FLOWER-LIFE.

PART FIRST.

Angels are sowers everywhere!
They scatter as they fly
The gifts of heaven. In flower-life
Is traced their passing by.

Upon the beaten thoroughfare,
Under the hedge-row sere,
On the heavings of the churchyard,
In places dread and drear;

Upon the far-famed battle-field,
Where freedom at a blow
Abased the giant Tyranny,
Their mission is to sow.

Also 'mid pleasant homesteads,
And meadows of delight,
And up among the harbourings
Of God's tempestuous might;
Upon the mountain forehead,
Which the ploughshare never scarr'd,
They cast, while soaring heavenward,
Their farewells of regard-

The nigh-exhausted affluence
Committed to their charge,
On the more favour'd valley land,
Sown broadcast and at large!

To the heaven of the heavens seven,
Where sit the tongues of fire;

And of God's heart and purposes—
His glory and his power-
New revelations ope on us
By virtue of the flower!

Better than pulpit rhapsodies,
Safer than priestly strife,

In its guidings to the throne of love
Is the study of Flower-life.

PART SECOND.

Angels are sowers everywhere,

They scatter as they fly

The gifts of Heaven, and everywhere Reveals their passing by.

Behold it in that shining tuft

No jeweller could devise
Out of the seed of orient pearl,
Or diamond's flashing eyes!

From imprint of the messenger
On mercy's errand sent,
Sprung up, obedient to the charm,
The sparkling ornament.

An angel dropt the acorn

Four centuries gone by,

From which yon gnarled oak cast root, And sprung its antlers high.

And oft among the curtains of

The storm-defying tree
Are heard the rustling as of wings,
And a sound like a nearing sea.

The lovers trysting under it

Affirm that earnest eyes
Are ofttimes gazing down on them
Like stars from autumnal skies;

And the pauses in their whisperings
Are filled up to the ear

With conference among the boughs
Of voices low and clear-
With renderings of legends
That stir the spirit fond,
And snatches of quaint melody,
Cull'd from the world beyond.
The gathering of angels

'Mid the hidings of the oak Is a page in the pleasant fiction Of the merrie fairy folk.

For angel-life and fairy-life,
In the poet's soul and song.
Their part hold in the mystery

That mateth Right with Wrong.

And everywhere and everywhere,
The angels and the elves,
To win God's creatures, zealously
Contend among themselves.

Yet of this grand contention

'Twixt the Evil and the Good'Twixt elf and angel, wrong and right— The end is understood!

Ye messengers of God! go on
Sowing the seed of grace,
And grant that in the reaping-time,
When face is turned to face,

And man beholds the Maker

In whose image he was fraughtWhen the light of apprehending

Things that were vainly sought
Comes flashing on an intellect

Obscured by the under-powers,
Be ye among the presences,
Ye sowers of the flowers!

That vindicate God's glory

By the showing of His love, And lend a leal helping hand To the paradise above!

JOHN BETHUNE, the younger of two remark able brothers, was born at the Mount, once the residence of Sir David Lindsay, in the parish

of Monimail, Fifeshire, August, 1810. We have already noticed the scanty education received by his elder brother Alexander; but the