CALMNESS was on the summer sea, Its breast as heaven was bright, The good ship bore on gallantly, The land put on the skies rich hue, Waxed cloud-like, beautiful and dim, Fainter, and fainter, still it grew Into the gold enamelled blue, Which shaded from the summit's rim. Night closed about the ship, no sound Save of the plashing sea Was heard, the waters all around Murmured so pleasantly, You would have thought the mermaids sang Down in their coral caves, So softly, and so sweetly rang The music of the waves. Slowly the watch paced o'er the deck, Humming some joyous air, How could he in such calmness reck The coming of despair, The good ship bore on steadily, Through the faint murmurs of the sea. But hark! the night is startled by a scream, It stretches round a blazing pyramid, Burning up the darkness with a lurid red. The breaking billows catch the light, And roll it far into the night; Fainter, and fainter, still they grow, As sinks the fierce devouring glow. Fall hissing in the tranquil main, The sun from out the eastern sea MARY'S DREAM. ALEXANDER LOWE. THE moon had climb'd the highest hill And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light o'er tower and tree: When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard Say, "Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be She saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale and hollow e'e. "O Mary dear! cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea; Far, far from thee I sleep in death, So, Mary, weep no more for me! "Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss'd upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. E'en then, when horror chill'd my blood, My heart was fill'd with love for thee; The storm is past, and I at rest, So, Mary, weep no more for me! "O maiden dear, thyself prepare, We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more." Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" THERE'S VAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. W. J. MICKLE. AND are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to think o' wark? When Colin's at the door? Gie me my cloak,-I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava'; There's little pleasure in the house, And gie me down my biggonet, And rin and tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, |