DEATH.*

THE dew is on the summer's greenest grass,
Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps;
The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps ;
But I who love them all shall never be
Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea!

The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine-
Bless'd is the brightness of a summer day;
It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,
Although among green fields I cannot stray?
Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave,
Familiar with death, and neighbor to the grave!

These words have shaken mighty human souls-
Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound-
E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls
The ivied remnants of old ruins round.

Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay ?

Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away?

* This poem is imagined to be the last, or among the very last of Nicoll's compositions.

Are there not aspirations in each heart,

After a better, brighter world than this?

Longings for beings nobler in each part―

Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss ?

Who gave us these? What are they? Soul! in thee The bud is budding now for immortality!

Death comes to take me where I long to be ;

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; Death comes to lead me from mortality,

To lands which know not one unhappy hour:

I have a hope-a faith ;-from sorrow here

:

I'm led by death away-why should I start and fear!

If I have loved the forest and the field,

Can I not love them deeper, better, there?
If all that power hath made, to me doth yield
Something of good and beauty-something fair-
Freed from the grossness of mortality,

May I not love them all, and better all enjoy?

A change from woe to joy-from earth to heaven,
Death gives me this it leads me calmly where

The souls that long ago from mine were riven

May meet again! Death answers many a prayer. Bright day! shine on-be glad :-Days brighter far Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortal are!

I would be laid among the wildest flowers,

I would be laid where happy hearts can come :The worthless clay I heed not; but in hours

Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some Will dwell upon my name; and I will be A happy spirit there, affection's look to see.

Death is upon me, yet I fear not now;-
Open my chamber-window-let me look

Upon the silent vales-the sunny glow

That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook :I know them-love them-mourn not them to leave, Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve!

MILTON. A SOU

A SO V VEJ.

BLIND, glorious, aged martyr, saint, and sage!
The poet's mission God reveal'd to thee,

To lift men's souls to Him-to make them free ;With tyranny and grossness war to wage

A worshipper of truth and love to be

To reckon all things nought but these alone ;To nought but mind and truth to bow the kneeTo make the soul a love-exalted throne!

Man of the noble spirit !-Milton, thou

All this didst do! A living type thou wert Of what the soul of man to be may grow— The pure perfection of the love-fraught heart! Milton! from God's right hand, look down and see For these, how men adore and honor thee!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

1798-1851.

DR. MOIR was a native of Musselburgh, a town near Edinburgh. His poems over the signature of Delta in Blackwood's Magazine, to which he was a frequent contributor from its commencement, were eagerly read and extensively copied into the journals of both England and America. He was also the author of the " Autobiography of Mansie Waugh," a book of much genuine humor. It was originally published in a series of papers in the columns of Blackwood.

His "Casa Wappy" is one of the most touching and tender effusions in the English language.

He died in his native town, lamented by a large circle of friends and admirers.

The late Lord Jeffrey, in writing to Moir, said of his "Domestic Verses":-"I cannot resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and, I hope, bettering emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what you have written is more genuine pathos than anything almost I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower recommendations indifferent."