THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.4

CALM on the breast of Loch Maree

A little isle reposes;

A shadow woven of the oak

And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen,
Set round with stony warders;
A fountain, gushing through the turf,
Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow,
With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
And sense of peace returning.

O! restless heart and fevered brain,

Unquiet and unstable,

That holy well of Loch Maree

Is more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun,

Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his way

That fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled will
And contrite heart are o'er it:
Go read its legend - "TRUST IN GOD"-
On Faith's white stones before it.

TO MY SISTER:

WITH A COPY OF SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND."

DEAR SISTER! - while the wise and sage

Turn coldly from my playful page,

And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to boyhood's folly;

I know that thou wilt judge aright

Of all which makes the heart more light,

Or lends one star-gleam to the night

Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with weary cares and themes!

Swing wide the moon-lit gate of dreams!

Leave free once more the land which teems
With wonders and romances!

Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies
Beneath the quaintly masking guise

Of wild and wizard fancies.

Lo! once again our feet we set

On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret

The roots of spectral beeches;

Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er

Home's white-washed wall and painted floor,

And young eyes widening to the lore

Of faery-folks and witches.

Dear heart!

- the legend is not vain

Which lights that holy hearth again,

And, calling back from care and pain,

And death's funereal sadness,

Draws round its old familiar blaze

The clustering groups of happier days,

And lends to sober manhood's gaze

A glimpse of childish gladness.

And, knowing how my life hath been

A

weary work of tongue and pen,

A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed men,

Thou wilt not chide my turning,

To con, at times, an idle rhyme,

To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noon-day chime,

For the sweet bells of Morning!