Beneath that massive silent brow,
A mine of thought lay deep and low;
As in the mine the golden store
With rock and gravel covered o'er.

An Etna burned within his breast,
With all his soul he hated rest;
He loved the battle and the strife,
They were his very breath and life.

Stern, cold, and proud, his thoughts he kept, Like smouldering fire within they slept, Until like Etna's fires they flamed,

With ardent force which nothing tamed.

Within that eye a passion lurked,
Whose undercurrent strongly worked,
With stern resolve and purpose fixed,
Single, unswerving, and unmixed.

He won, because resolved to win,
Defeat to him the greatest sin,

Crowns were the stakes for which he played,
He practised well that cunning trade.

Ambition never has a glut,

He trod the snows with slippery foot,

Of Arctic regions bleak and wild,

And with his men's best blood defiled.

There learned a lesson slow to learn,

When then to France he did return,
And led his shattered columns back,
Upon their lately trodden track.

Played out the game with wondrous skill
And an indomitable will,

When like a stag he stood at bay
On Waterloo's tremendous day.

There played the game and there he lost,
When France and England bayonets crossed,
Crimsoned with blood that glorious plain,
In torrents like the tropic rain.

As loudly pealed the trumpet's swell,
Pierced to the heart the eagle fell,
As the red drops the field did wet,
Napoleon's star for ever set.

January 27, 1860.

A WINTER EVENING.

Upon the hills the snow-drift lay,
White as the bloom in balmy May;

Whilst here and there a spot of green,
Looked brightly out the drifts between.

Bright shone the sun, a rosy hue,
Its beams upon the snow-drift threw,
Tinting it o'er with rosy streaks,
Like those upon a maiden's cheeks.

Keen was the air but clear and bright,
The clouds glowed with a golden light,
Reflecting back the setting sun,
Like mirrors ere its light was gone.

Their color changed as I gazed,
Like furnace fires the vapours blazed,
And then as more the day declined,
With silvery light their masses shined.

As sank the sun beneath the West,
The clouds showed like a purple vest,
And darker still and darker grew,

Till night at last its curtain drew.

January 30, 1860.

ON THE ARGUMENT AGAINST MIRACLES

BY HUME.

We see a part but not the whole,

See Nature's wheels in play;

Know earth doth round its axis roll,
Producing night and day.

We see the sunshine and the rain,
The dew on summer's eve,

Like diamonds sparkling on the plain,
We see and we believe.

These day by day and night by night,
A constant changeless round,

And then unalterable write,
By law primæval bound.

We read of wonders in a book
By navigators told,
Incredulous nor do we look,

But true as truth we hold.

Can these be true, and true believed,
And those the Bible tells,

By Jesus and His saints believed,

Be false as broken bells.

They form a part of that great plan,

Which partially we see;

The whole shall not be known to man

Until eternity.

January, 1860.

TO THE SETTING SUN.

O sun! a golden glory girds
Thy sinking in the sea,
And the sweet melody of birds
Thee greets from every tree.

O splendid orb 'tis fair to see
Thy last departing ray,
Flinging its light upon the sea
And yonder shining bay.

To see the ships like golden things The glowing waters cleave, Sailing like birds with golden wings On this fair summer's eve.

To see the daylight as it fades

On hill and dale away,

To see the deep and purple shades

Mantle the dying day.

To hear the hound at distance bay,

Sad as a funeral knell,

As though unto the dying day

He bayed a last farewell.