There is innocent bliss in that playful song,
Rolling its rippling voice on mine ear;
Light leaps my heart as it glides along

In spring-tide joyousness fresh and clear;
For ne'er can the bosom-chords sleep to the sound
Of the brooklet that lull'd pure childhood's rest;
Recalling oft, as it flutters around,

Sweet Eden dreams to the time-chill'd breast.

O, voice of the stream! thou art sweet and dear
In the dewy eve of the flowery May,
When thy Fairyland music, hovering near,

Fills each soft pause in the lover's lay:

Hark! wild and dread is the swelling strain
That booms on the mustering night wind by!
Like the shout of strife, and the groan of pain,
And the pan of victory loud and high:
Of manhood it tells in the noon of his might,
When glory beams on his lofty brow--
When bursts on his bosom the torrent of fight,
And the powers of nature before him bow.

Alas, alas! 'tis a haunted spot,

And a gushing, endless wail art thou.

There is mirth and sport in thy altering voice,
I hear it dancing adown the vale,
While the shout and the song bid echo rejoice,
And laughter rides on the joy-wing'd gale:-
The bleating of lambs on the sunny braes,

The lightsome maiden's petulant tongue,
Blent with the shepherd-boy's rustic lays,
Free on the wandering breeze are flung.

Laden with longings, regrets, and woes, When hope is a dream of the dead to him,

And pall-like the grave shadows o'er him close.

Breathe on, breathe on! thou voice of the stream!
To thousand fancies thy notes give birth
In my musing spirit, and still they seem
The storied records of man and earth:
For thou hast partaken his mirth or moan,

Since first from Eden his steps were driven; And his fate shall speak in thy changeful tone, Till the exile returns to his home in heaven.

BETHUNE.

The elder of two remarkable brothers, ALEXANDER BETHUNE was born in the parish of Monimail, Fifeshire, in July, 1804. The extreme poverty of his parents enabled them to give him but a scanty education at the village school, which was supplemented by some instruction in writing and arithmetic at home. His boyhood was passed in the most abject poverty, and at fourteen he followed the occupation of a common labourer, working on farms, in a quarry, and in breaking stones on the public highways. In spite of these obstacles, however, he early contracted a taste for literature, and devoted his evening hours to reading and the composition of verses and tales. While employed in breaking stones in 1835 he wrote a very clear and characteristic letter to the Messrs. Chambers of Edinburgh, in which he expressed a desire to submit some of his articles for inspection with a view to

their publication in the Edinburgh Journal. Several articles from his pen soon after appeared in the columns of that periodical, and thus began Bethune's literary career. Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry, part of which was written by his brother John, appeared in 1838, and was most favourably received. The year following Lectures on Practical Economy, the joint production of the two brothers, was published. In 1843 another volume from Alexander's pen appeared, entitled The Scottish Peasant's Fireside, which met with the same kind reception extended to the Tales and Sketches. But this was the last of his intellectual efforts, and his life of struggle was drawing to a close. He had been offered the editorship of the Dumfries Standard, with a salary of £100 per annum, but impaired health compelled him to decline a position which would have been so congenial

to him, and for which his talents well fitted him. He became rapidly worse, and died at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, June 13, 1843, in his thirty-ninth year. His remains were interred in the grave of his brother John in Abdie churchyard. An interesting volume

of his Life, Correspondence, and Literary Remains was published in 1845 by William M'Combie. On the death of his brother in 1839, Alexander collected his poems, and prepared a memoir of his life, which was published the year following.

MUSINGS OF CONVALESCENCE.

After seclusion sad, and sad restraint,
Again the welcome breeze comes wafted far
Across the cooling bosom of the lake,
To fan my weary limbs and feverish brow,
Where yet the pulse beats audible and quick-
And I could number every passing throb,
Without the pressure which physicians use,
As easily as I could count the chimes

By which the clock sums up the flight of time.
Yet it is pleasing, from the bed of sickness,
And from the dingy cottage, to escape
For a short time to breathe the breath of heaven,
And ruminate abroad with less of pain.

Let those who never pressed the thorny pillow,
To which disease oft ties its victim down
For days and weeks of wakeful suffering-
Who never knew to turn or be turned
From side to side, and seek, and seek in vain,
For ease and a short season of repose-
Who never tried to circumvent a moan,
And tame the spirit with a tyrant's sway,
To bear what must be borne and not complain-
Who never strove to wring from the writhed lip
And rigid brow, the semblance of a smile,
To cheer a friend in sorrow sitting by,
Nor felt that time, in happy days so fleet,
Drags heavily along when dogged by pain,
Let those talk well of Nature's beauteous face,
And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and moun-
tains;

Her clustered hills and winding valleys deep;
Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast,
In all the pomp of modern sentiment;
But still they cannot feel with half the force,
Which the pale invalid, imprisoned long,
Experiences upon his first escape

To the green fields and the wide world abroad:
Beauty is beauty--freshness, freshness, then;
And feeling is a something to be felt-
Not fancied--as is frequently the case.

These feelings lend an impulse now, and hope
Again would soar upon the wings of health;
Yet is it early to indulge his flight,
When death, short while ago, seem'd hovering

near;

And the next hour perhaps may bring him back, And bring me to that "bourne" where I shall sleep

Not like the traveller, though he sleep well,
Not like the artisan or humble hind,
Or the day-labourer worn out with his toil,
Who pass the night scarce conscious of its passing,
Till morning with its balmy breath return,
And the shrill cock-crow warns them from their
bed-

That sleep shall be more lasting and more dreamless

Than aught which living men on earth may know.
Well, be it so: methinks my life, though short,
Hath taught me that this sublunary world
Is something else than fancy wont to paint it-
A world of many cares and anxious thoughts,
Pains, sufferings, abstinence, and endless toil,
From which it were small penance to be gone.
Yet there are feelings in the heart of youth,
Howe'er depress'd by poverty or pain,
Which loathe the oblivious grave; and I would
live,

If it were only but to be convinced

That "all is vanity beneath the sun.'

Yes! while these hands can earn what nature asks,
Or lessen, by one bitter drop, the cup
Of woe, which some must drink even to its dregs,
Or have it in their power to hold a crust
To the pale lip of famished indigence,
I would not murmur or repine though care,
The toil-worn, frame-tired arm, and heavy foɔt,
Should be my portion in this pilgrimage.
But when this ceases, let me also cease,
If such may be thy will, O God of Heaven!
Thou knowest all the weakness of my heart,
And it is such, I would not be a beggar
Nor ask an alms from charity's cold hand:
I would not buy existence at the price
Which the poor mendicant must stoop to pay.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

Unlike all other things earth knows,
(All else may fail or change)
The love in a mother's heart that glows
Nought earthly can estrange.
Concentrated, and strong, and bright,
A vestal flame it glows

With pure, self-sacrificing light,
Which no cold shadow knows.

everyday feeling. Professor Wilson said of his African and other Poems, and Bard of the North, "My ingenious friend Dugald Moore

of Glasgow, whose poems-both volumes-are full of uncommon power and frequently exhibit touches of true genius."

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.

Sister! is this an hour for sleep?

Should slumber mar a daughter's prayer, When drinks her father, on the deep, Death's chalice in despair? Though I have rested in the grave,

Long with oblivion's ghastly crowd, Yet the wild tempest on the wave

Hath roused me from my shroud!

"Tis but a few short days since he, Our father, left his native land, And I was there, when by the sea

Ye wept, and grasp'd each parting hand; I hover'd o'er you, when alone

The farewell thrill'd each wounded heartThe breeze then raised its warning tone, And bade the ship depart.

I saw the bark in sunshine quit
Our own romantic shore;

Thou heard'st the tempest-it hath smit

The proudest-now no more; Amid the ocean's solitude,

Unseen, I trod its armèd deck, And watch'd our father when he stood In battle and in wreck.

But stronger than a spirit's arm

Is His who measures out the sky-
Who rides upon the volley'd storm
When it comes sweeping by.
The tempest rose;-I saw it burst,

Like death upon the ocean's sleep;
The warriors nobly strove at first,

But perish'd in the deep.

High floating on the riven storm,
I hover'd o'er the staggering bark-
Oh God! I saw our father's form
Sink reeling in the dark!

I hung above the crew, and drank
Their wild their last convulsive prayer;
One thunder roll, then down they sank,
And all was blackness there!

Our father strove in vain to brave
The hurricane in all its wrath,

My airy foot was on the wave

That quench'd his latest breath:

I smoothed the sea's tremendous brim,
The fearful moment that he died,
And spread a calmer couch for him

Than those who perish'd by his side.

The wild waves, flung by giant death
Above that lone, that struggling crew-
Shrunk backward, when my viewless breath
Came o'er their bosoms blue;

I saw beneath the lightning's frown,
Our father on the billows roll,
I smote the hissing tempest down,
And clasp'd his shrinking soul.

Then, hand in hand we journey'd on,

Far far above the whirlwind's roar, And laugh'd at death, the skeleton,

Who could not scathe us more!
Around, the stars in beauty flung

Their pure, their never-dying light,
Lamps by the Eternal's fiat hung
To guide the spirit's flight.

TO THE CLYDE.

When cities of old days
But meet the savage gaze,
Stream of my early ways,
Thou wilt roll,
Though fleets forsake thy breast,
And millions sink to rest,-
Of the bright and glorious west
Still the soul.

When the porch and stately arch,
Which now so proudly perch
O'er thy billows, on their march
To the sea,

Are but ashes in the shower;
Still the jocund summer hour,
From his cloud will weave a bower
Over thee.

When the voice of human power
Has ceased in mart and bower;
Still the broom and mountain flower
Will thee bless:

And the mists that love to stray
O'er the Highlands, far away,
Will come down their deserts gray
To thy kiss.

And the stranger, brown with toil,
From the far Atlantic's soil,
Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
Yet may come