Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!”
In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child-all but the name!

How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard,
Words that, inspired by Heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast!
And for thy smile!—thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I call'd thee duteous; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to Nature, and to Love!
To God!-for thou a harmless child
Hast kept His temple undefiled:
To Nature!-for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To Love!-for fiends of hate might see
Thou dwellest in love, and love in thee!
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Night.

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy!
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the Seraphim?

#ight.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

TIGHT is the time for rest;

NIGH

How sweet when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose;

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams,

The gay romance of life;

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife:

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

299

Night is the time for toil,
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perish'd young like things of earth!

Night is the time to watch,

On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care,

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent,

Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse,—

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and, with expanding views,

Beyond the starry pole,

Descries athwart the abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Here's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie.

Night is the time to pray,—

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,
So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends ;-such death be mine!

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Here's to Thee, my Scottish bassie.

BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.

HERE'S to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty

health to thee,

For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;

For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace,

For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy

face;

For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be,

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—though my glow of youth is o'er;

And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no

more;

Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my soul at last,

And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friendship

past;

Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,―

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though I know that not for me

Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm

and free;

Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me

by,

Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful eye; Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,—

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I meet thee in the throng

Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely along, I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form, As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm;

And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of

glee,

And for once, my Scottish lassie! dance a giddy dance with thee.