If e'er her faded face we scanned,

So sweet in its decay,

She hid it with her meagre

And hurried her away.

hand

Yea, though we sorrowed for her pain,
And would each care bestow,

The more we wished her to remain,
And shelter her from sun and rain,
The more she wished to go.

If e'er her little dog we named
A tender song she sung,

As if by some lone damsel framed
Whose heart was wildly wrung;
And aye she would that strain prolong,
With voice so shrill and wild,
It scarcely seemed an earthly song-
A strain that never should belong
To one so sweet and mild.

Then would she start and look around, As if she were pursued,

As if the wildered thought were found
That all her grief renewed.

And she would bless the happy time
She left her cell behind,

For, oh, she dearly loved to climb

The hills of heath, the banks of thyme, Free as the wandering wind.

'Twas plain that she had been beloved, By what she said and sung,

MY SISTER.

But vain to question why she roved,
Or whence her sorrows sprung.
'Twas seen some grief-awakening name
She to her dog had given,

But what had worn her wasted frame,
For aught that to our knowledge came,
'Twas only known in heaven.

'Tis long since passed the stranger maid
Along our quiet vale,

11

And none hath learnt from whence she strayed,
And none can tell the tale,

If still she spurns, as once she spurned,
Each proffered hand to save,

Or if her senses be returned,

And she is blest with him she mourned,
Or if she fills her grave.

MY SISTER.

My Sister! while in life's dark valley beset
With woes all have felt, and must also be thine,
Heaven grant that this bosom may never forget
What aid thou hast claim to, what duties are mine.

Should I, who upon the same bosom have hung,

Who have knelt in devotion beside the same knee, Who have listened to truth from the same pious

tongue,

Despise every dictate, and care not for thee?

No! memory shall nurse, 'mid her visions of joy,
The feelings that nature awaked in my breast,
In the days when a mother assigned my employ

To rock thy hushed cradle and sing thee to rest.

When the hand of a parent was urged to apply

The rod of correction-then reckoned severeOh, well I remember thou sighedst to my sigh,

And, in truant retreats, shed a tear for my tear.

When far from my home and my kindred remote,
Thy pen was resigned to a tender employ-
To convey
all that passed in my father's dear cot,
And cheer me with sweet recollections of joy.

My sister! thy sorrows I ever shall feel,

Thy pleasures to me shall a pleasure impart, Thy wrongs and thy injuries kindle my zeal Το revenge with the last blood that throbs in my

heart.

Alas! if of father and mother bereft,

Think not thou art fated in sorrow to roam, But turn to thy brother when thus thou art left— Be his arm thy support and his cottage thy home.

Yes! turn unto him, and despair not of aid,

'Till a friend, far more dear than a brother can be, Shall walk thro' the sunshine of life and the shade, With a heart true to honour, to virtue, and thee.

THE DEPARTED BROTHER.

(Extract from a Poem entitled “A Father's Cottage.") YEA, I have envied not the man alone

Who steals through life to all its woes unknown,
Even as a river through some flowery wild
Winds to the sea untroubled, undefiled,
But I have envied him whose dreamless head
Rests on the pillow where no tear is shed,
Whose mouldering heart nor heaves to joy nor wo,
Whose name belongs not to this world below.
My little Edward! I have envied thee

Thy peaceful rest beneath the churchyard tree—
My little brother! though thy course was run
Before mine eyes had ever seen the sun,
And soon, alas! as thou hadst learned to frame
Thy two first words—a sire's, a mother's name—
Yet still I hold thee as sincerely dear
As any brother Heaven hath left me here.

I well remember many a schoolboy day, We sought the churchyard at our hours of play, And bounded lightly o'er each wrapping sod, Nor thought of those on whom we idly trod. Yet, all along, though careless as the rest, I could not see them gambol o'er thy breast; And I have seen the most obdurate boy, Whose thoughtless heart was only tuned to joy, Behold in me the anguish that it gave, And turn in pity from thy little grave.

And I have marked on many a sabbath morn, As we came winding past the churchyard thorn,

My tender mother's sorrow-moistened
eye
Dwell on the spot where thy dear relics lie;
And if by chance the Psalmist's holy lay
Sung of the friends that moulder in the clay,
Oft have I seen her cease to join the strain,
And the tear start into her eye again.
Then as we wandered from the house of prayer,
Oft she would dwell upon the days that were,
And she would tell of all thy infant play,
Of all thy feats, of all that thou couldst say;
And, oh, how sad to think thy grave was green!
How sad to think of what thou might'st have been!

My little brother! though it soothes me still
That thou art free from every earthly ill,
Yet I could wish that thou wert here below,
A friend in all my joy and all my wo;
For oft I meet thee in my dreams at night,
And mourn to lose thee at the morning's light.
My little Edward! I shall strive to be

What Heaven requires, that I may meet with thee!

THE MANSE.*

O YES, my friend! it is a lovely place,
The parson's dwelling and the scenery round
Has something more than earthly in its stillness.
The river stealing down its level way,
The smooth green hills, the yellow plains below,

* The Scene of this little Poem lies in the vicinity of the village of Ancrum, near the beautiful conflux of the waters Ale and Tiviot.