Of simplest truth, by taste refined ;— But though I ne'er have seen thy face,

Not seldom, do I love to trace

The features of thy mind.

II.

Pure as the calm, sequestered stream,

That winds its way through flowers and fern;

Now gliding here, now wandering there,

Diffusing coolness every where,

Refreshing all in turn :—

III.

Thus do thy strains, serene and sweet,

Well from their calm, untroubled shrine;
Winning their way, from heart to heart,
And healing many a mourner's smart,
With balsam half divine!

IV.

What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand,

I see thee oft in Fancy's glass; “Edwin" and "Ranger " in thy train,

Pacing across the village plain,

The "Broken Bridge" to pass!

V.

And mark thy devious footsteps threading
The "Church-yard's" green and

grassy rise

Now stopping by some fresh-made grave,
News of the timeless dead to crave,

To make the living wise.

Or by the "

VI.

open casement sitting,"

With Autumn's latest flowers before thee,
Drinking thy "Birdie's" merry notes,
Or tracking the sun as he proudly floats
To his haven of rest and glory!

;

VII.

And when grey twilight weaves her web,
And the sounds of day-life melt away;
In thy garden plot I see thee stand,
Watching the night-stock's leaves expand,
Or framing some soothing lay!

M

VIII.

Some low, sweet dirge, of softest power, To stir the bosom's inmost strings ;When friends departed,—pleasures fled,— Or a sinless infant's dying bed,

Are the themes thy fancy brings!

IX.

Oh! much I love to steal away

From garish strains that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine,

And

pause o'er each wildly-witching line, Till my tears, unbidden, start!

X.

For thou hast ever been to me

A gentle monitor and friend ;—

And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong,

That solace while they mend!

XI.

Hence have I sought, in simplest phrase,

To give my gratitude a tongue;

And if one stricken heart I bring,
For comfort, to the self-same spring,

Not vainly have I sung.

XII.

Adieu! we ne'er may meet on earth,
Yet I feel I know thee passing well;--
And when some pensive face I see,
Fair as my cherished thoughts of thee,
I'll deem it thine-FAREWELL!

ON LEAVING SCOTLAND.

BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.

HAUNT of the bard and painter, hardy child
Of nature, cradled in the giant arms
Of winter, and the lonely mountains wild,
I leave thee, Caledonia! but thy charms
Are pictured on my heart. May never tread
Of foemen, nor the trumpet of alarms

Approach thee more: but peace and plenty spread
Their mantle o'er thee, and the laurelled crown
Of Science grace thy castellated head.

For me,―till health, and reason's self be flown,
The thought shall kindle, and the tongue shall tell
Thy lakes and rocks, thy patriots and renown.
Land of the frith, the cataract, and the dell,
Land of the Wallace and the Bruce,--Farewell!

THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE

LAMB.

BY MARY HOWITT.

I.

OH! poverty is a weary thing,
'Tis full of grief and pain,
It crushes down the heart of man,
And dulls his cunning brain;

It maketh even the little child

With heavy sighs complain!

II.

For it hath neither house nor field,

Nor even a sheltering tree,

And it willeth not that man should have
Good things by land or sea;—

Its heart is hard as the nether millstone,

And as cold as it can be.

III.

'Tis a frightful thing to look upon

Ragged, and pale, and lean,—