12 HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-in my sad and lonely hours, The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers ; Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye, Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky; Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought of thee. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though my muse must soon be dumb, (For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, are come,) Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high, And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye; Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for me, Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! still I'll drink a health to thee. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee; May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now! And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be, Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee! WEEP NOT FOR HER! BY D. M. MOIR. WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die, Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light, Weep not for her! She died in early youth, Weep not for her! Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven: Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel The miseries that corrode amassing years, Weep not for her! She is an angel now, 14 WEEP NOT FOR HER. Victorious over death to her appears, Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe, And from earth's low defilements keep thee back, So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her! BETTER MOMENTS. BY N. P. WILLIS. My mother's voice! how oft doth creep Or dew to the unconscious flowers. Her gentle tone comes stealing by, Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, and perhaps Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, With wilder fleetness throng'd the night;When all was beauty-then have I With friends on whom my love is flung Like myrrh on wings of Araby, Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. And when the beautiful spirit there Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air Like the light dropping of the rain; And resting on some silver star The spirit of a bended knee, I've pour'd her low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be To rise in Heaven like stars at night, And tread a living path of light! I have been on the dewy hills When night was stealing from the dawn And mist was on the waking rills, In the gray east-when birds were waking A melody by fits was breaking Upon the whisper of the breeze, And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance 16 BETTER MOMENTS. And when the sun sprang gloriously The arrows from his subtle quiver- Like words from the departing night, First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow, THE MAY-FLOWERS OF LIFE. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. Suggested by the Author's having found a branch of May in a volume of Burns's Poems, which had been deposited there, by a Friend, several years before. MEMORIAL frail of youthful years, Of hopes as wild and bright as they, Thy faint, sweet perfume call up tears may not, cannot wish away! Thy wither'd leaves are as a spell |