Yet calmly flows its silver tide,
Unconscious that on either side
A hostile realm is known;
Unconscious that its waves detain

The hope of France,-the prize of Spain,--
King Francis from his throne!

Many a day, in dark Madrid,

Hath he borne the captive's thrall,
And often longed his head were hid
Beneath a funeral pall;

But now he views, with raptured glance,
His own bright realm, his darling France,
In glorious hues expand!

Now, o'er the stream, with eager prow,
His bark speeds swiftly on,—and now
The monarch leaps to land!

Glad shouts arise! and warrior vows-
Vows for a king to share;

And helms are doffed from stately brows,
And knees are bending there;—

Each knight and noble waves his brand,
And swears by Heaven and his own right-hand,

66 'Revenge! and hate to Spain !"

But joy alone is in the glance

Of him who treads the turf of France-
A king—a king again!

And now he mounts his gallant steed,
His plume waves on the wind—
And he flashes on with lightning speed,
While his train sweeps fast behind!
Helm, brand, and banner gleam around,
And victor shout, and trumpet sound,
Far o'er the landscape ring!

But heard through all is the monarch's cry,
And echo peals it to the sky,—

"A king-yet, yet a king!"

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 dreamed, must feel and dream no more; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled 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.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!—I shall think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through Heaven;

I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every wind that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandoned oak, its withered autumn leaves; In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often think of thee.

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!
Friendship's Offering.

THE SHADOW.

BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.

UPON yon dial-stone

Behold the shade of Time, For ever circling on and on,

In silence more sublime

Than if the thunders of the spheres
Pealed forth its march to mortal ears.

It metes us hour by hour,

Doles out our little span,

Reveals a Presence and a Power,
Felt and confessed by man;
The drop of moments, day by day,
That rocks of ages wear away.

Wov'n by a hand unseen,

Upon that stone survey

A robe of dark, sepulchral green,
The mantle of decay,-

The fold of chill Oblivion's pall,
That falleth with yon shadow's fall.

Day is the time for toil;

Night balms the weary breast; Stars have their vigils, seas awhile

Will sink to peaceful rest:

But round and round the shadow creeps Of that which slumbers not-nor sleeps!

Effacing all that's fair,

Hushing the voice of mirth Into the silence of despair

Around the lonesome hearth, And training ivy garlands green O'er the once gay and social scene.

And—where, a phantom of the past,
Dim in the mists of years,

Gleams Tadmor o'er Oblivion's waves,
Like wrecks above their ocean graves.—

Before the ceaseless shade,

That round the world doth sail-
Its towers and temples bow the head-
The pyramids look pale:

The festal halls grow hushed and cold,
The everlasting hills wax old.

Coeval with the sun

Its silent course began—

And still its phantom race shall run,
Till worlds with age grow wan;
Till Darkness spread her funeral pall,
And one vast shadow circle all.

Literary Souvenir.

WINDERMERE.

BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.

LAUNCH, and row northward to yon gulf profound
Of mountain piled on mountain: evening grey
Is glooming on the majesty around;

Lake, meadow, rock, and woodland; while the ray
Of latest crimson lingers where on high
Peak after peak unfold their long display,
In hues still darkening, till we scarce espy
Amid the silence and the deep serene,
Their huge tempestuous outline on the sky.
What then?-and hast thou nothing heard or seen
But the dun twilight o'er the landscape spread?
Are there not voices in each valley green?
Peal not Hosannas from each mountain head?-
Awake!-or thou art not asleep, but dead!