The one had threescore years and three;

Far out on the sand they bound her, Where the first dark flow of the waves as they grow, Is quickly swirling round her.

The other was a maiden fresh and fair; More near to the land they bound her, That she might see by slow degree

The grim waves creeping round her.

O captain, spare that maiden gray,

She's deep in the deepening water!
No! no!-she's lifted her hands to pray,
And the choking billow caught her!

See, see, young maid, cried the captain grim,
The wave shall soon ride o'er thee!

She's swamped in the brine whose sin was like thine;

See that same fate before thee!

I see the Christ who hung on a tree
When his life for sins he offered;

In one of his members, even he

With that meek maid hath suffered.

O captain, save that meek young maid;
She's a loyal farmer's daughter!

Well, well! let her swear to good King James,
And I'll hale her out from the water!

I will not swear to Popish James,

But I pray for the head of the nation, That he and all, both great and small,

May know God's great salvation!

She spoke; and lifted her hands to pray, And felt the greedy water,

Deep and more deep around her creep,
Till the choking billow caught her!

O Wigton, Wigton! I'm wae to sing
The truth o' this waesome story;
But God will sinners to judgment bring,
And his saints shall reign in glory.

THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.1

As I came wandering down Glen Spean,
Where the braes are green and grassy,
With my light step I overtook
A weary-footed lassie.

She had one bundle on her back,
Another in her hand,

1 The following lines contain the simple unadorned statement of a fact in the experience of a friend, who is fond of wandering in the Highland glens.

VOL. II.-X

And she walked as one who was full loath
To travel from the land.

Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"-for she
Had bair of flowing gold,

And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,
Right pleasant to behold-

"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee
On this bright summer day,
To travel sad and shoeless thus
Upon the stony way?

"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,
And thou art burdened so;
March lightly now, and let me bear
The bundles as we go."

"No, no!" she said; "that may not be;
What's mine is mine to bear;

Of good or ill, as God may will,
I take my portioned share."

"But you have two and I have none;
One burden give to me;

I'll take that bundle from thy back.
That heavier seems to be.'

"No. no!" she said; "this, if you will, That holds-no hand but mine

May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean, 'Cross the Atlantic brine!"

"Well, well! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load
Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road?

"Belike it is some present rare

From friend in parting hour; Perhaps, as prudent maidens' wont, Thou tak'st with thee thy dower."

She drooped her head, and with her hand She gave a mournful wave: "Oh, do not jest, dear sir!-it is

Turf from my mother's grave!"

I spoke no word: we sat and wept
By the road-side together;
No purer dew on that bright day
Was dropt upon the heather.

OCTOBER.

Once the year was gay and bright,
Now the sky is gray and sober;
But not the less thy milder light

I love, thou sere and brown October.

Then across each ferny down

Marched proud flush of purple heather; Now in robe of modest brown,

Heath and fern lie down together.

Weep who will the faded year,

I have weaned mine eyes from weeping; Drop not for the dead a tear,

Love her, she is only sleeping. And when storms of wild unrest

O'er the frosted fields come sweeping, Weep not; 'neath her snowy vest Nature gathers strength from sleeping.

Rest and labour, pleasure, pain,

Hunger, feeding, thirsting, drinking, Ebb and flow, and loss and gain,

Love and hatred, dreaming, thinking. Each for each exists, and all

Binds one secret mystic tether; And each is best as each may fall For you and me, and all together.

Then clothe thee or in florid vest,

Thou changeful year, or livery sober, Thy present wear shall please me best,

Or rosy June, or brown October. And when loud tempests spur their race, I'll know, and have no cause for weeping, They brush the dust from off thy face,

To make thee wake more fair from sleeping.

A SONG OF THE COUNTRY.

Away from the roar and the rattle,

The dust and the din of the town, Where to live is to brawl and to battle,

Till the strong treads the weak man down! Away to the bonnie green hills

Where the sunshine sleeps on the brae, And the heart of the greenwood thrills

To the hymn of the bird on the spray.

Away from the smoke and the smother, The veil of the dun and the brown, The push and the plash and the pother, The wear and the waste of the town! Away where the sky shines clear,

And the light breeze wanders at will, And the dark pine-wood nod near

To the light-plumed birch on the hill.

Away from the whirling and wheeling,
And steaming above and below,
Where the heart has no leisure for feeling
And the thought has no quiet to grow.
Away where the clear brook purls,

And the hyacinth droops in the shade,

And the plume of the fern uncurls
Its grace in the depth of the glade.
Away to the cottage so sweetly

Embowered 'neath the fringe of the wood,
Where the wife of my bosom shall meet me
With thoughts ever kindly and good;
More dear than the wealth of the world,
Fond mother with bairnies three,
And the plump-armed babe that has curled
Its lips sweetly pouting for me.

Then away from the roar and the rattle,
The dust and din of the town,
Where to live is to brawl and to battle,
Till the strong treads the weak man down.
Away where the green twigs nod

In the fragrant breath of the May,
And the sweet growth spreads on the sod,
And the blithe birds sing on the spray.

THE HIGHLAND MANSE.

If men were free to take, and wise to use

The fortunes richly strewn by kindly chance, Then kings and mighty potentates might choose To live and die lords of a Highland manse. For why? Though that which spurs the forward mind

Be wanting here, the high-perched glittering prize,

The bliss that chiefly suits the human kind
Within this bounded compass largely lies-
The healthful change of labour and of ease,
The sober inspiration to do good,

The green seclusion, and the stirring breeze, The working hand leagued with the thoughtful mood;

These things, undreamt by feverish-striving men, The wise priest knows who rules a Highland glen.

BEAUTIFUL WORLD!

Beautiful world!

Though bigots condemn thee,
My tongue finds no words
For the graces that gem thee!
Beaming with sunny light,
Bountiful ever,

Streaming with gay delight,
Full as a river!

Bright world! brave world!
Let cavillers blame thee!

I bless thee, and bend

To the God who did frame thee!

Beautiful world!"

Bursting around me, Manifold, million-hued

Wonders confound me!

From earth, sea, and starry sky,

Meadow and mountain,

Eagerly gushes

Life's magical fountain.

Bright world! brave world!

Though witlings may blame thee, Wonderful excellence Only could frame thee!

The bird in the greenwood
His sweet hymn is trolling,
The fish in blue ocean

Is spouting and rolling!
Light things on airy wing

Wild dances weaving,

Clods with new life in spring
Swelling and heaving!

Thou quick-teeming world,

Though scoffers may blame thee,

I wonder, and worship

The God who could frame thee!

Beautiful world!

What poesy measures
Thy strong-flooding passions,
Thy light-trooping pleasures?
Mustering, marshalling,
Striving and straining,
Conquering, triumphing,
Ruling and reigning!

Thou bright-armied world!

So strong, who can tame thee?
Wonderful power of God
Only could frame thee!

Beautiful world!

While godlike I deem thee, No cold wit shall move me

With bile to blaspheme thee!
I have lived in thy light,

And, when Fate ends my story,
May I leave on death's cloud
The bright trail of life's glory!
Wondrous old world!

No ages shall shame thee! Ever bright with new light From the God who did frame thee!

THOMAS SMIBERT, a poet and most prolific prose-writer, was born Feb. 8, 1810, at Peebles, of which town his father held for some time the honourable office of provost. Intended for the medical profession, he was at first apprenticed to an apothecary, and afterwards studied at the University of Edinburgh. He was licensed as a surgeon, and began practice at Innerleithen, near Peebles, but lack of business and a disappointment in love induced him to abandon the place and his profession, and betake himself to the field of literature. Removing to Edinburgh he obtained employment with the Messrs. Chambers, and became a successful writer for their Journal, to which he contributed no less than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, fifty biographical sketches, and numerous poems within a period of five years. He also wrote extensively for the Information for the People, a work published by the same firm.

In 1842 Smibert was appointed sub-editor of the Scotsman newspaper, and the same year a historical play from his pen, entitled Conde's Wife, was produced at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, where it had a run of nine nights. Although by the bequest of a wealthy relative Smibert became independent of his pen as a means of livelihood, he still continued to write. Besides contributing to Hogg's Instructor, he published a work on Greek History, collated a Rhyming Dictionary, and prepared a magnificently illustrated volume on the Clans of the Highlands of Scotland. In 1851 he collected and published his poetical compositions in a volume entitled "Io Anche! Poems chiefly Lyrical." Many of the pieces are translations from French writers.

Mr. Smibert died at Edinburgh January 16, 1854, in his forty-fourth year. Dr. Rogers says of him:-"With pleasing manners, he

was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. In person he was strongly built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his

regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos."

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.

Afore the Lammas tide

Had dun'd the birken tree,

In a' our water-side

Nae wife was bless'd like me.

A kind gudeman, and twa

Sweet bairns were 'round me here,

But they're a' ta'en awa

Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Sair trouble cam' our gate,

And made me, when it cam',

A bird without a mate,

A ewe without a lamb.
Our hay was yet to maw,

And our corn was to shear,
When they a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.

I downa look a-field,
For aye I trow I see
The form that was a bield

To my wee bairns and me;

But wind, and weet, and snaw, They never mair can fear,

Sin' they a' got the ca'

In the fa' o' the year.

Aft on the hill at e'ens

I see him 'mang the fernsThe lover o' my teens,

The faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw,

As gloamin aye drew near,

But my a's now awa'

Sin' the fa' o' the year.

Our bonnie riggs theirsel'
Reca' my waes to mind;
Our puir dumb beasties tell
O' a' that I hae tyned;
For wha our wheat will saw,
And wha our sheep will shear,
Sin' my a' gaed awa'

In the fa' o' the year?

My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still,

And sair, sair in the fauld
Will be the winter's chill;
For peats were yet to ca',

Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' passed awa'

In the fa' o' the year.

I ettle whiles to spin,

But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in,

And then I just maun greet;

I ken it's fancy a',

And faster rows the tear,
That my a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.

Be kind, O Heaven abune!
To ane sae wae and lane,
And tak' her hamewards sune
In pity o' her maen.
Lang ere the March winds blaw,

May she, far, far frae here,
Meet them a' that's awa'

Sin' the fa' o' the year!

THE HERO OF ST. JOHN D'ACRE.

Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean ap

pearing,

The banner of England is spread to the

breeze,

And loud is the cheering that hails the up

rearing

Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the

seas.

No tempest shall daunt her,

No victor-foe taunt her,

What manhood can do in her cause shall be done

Britannia's best seaman,

The boast of her freemen,

Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.

On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to

uphold;

I see nae father's ha',
Nae burnie's waterfa',
But wander far awa'

Frae my ain dear land. My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night,

Thro' a foe's fell brand: I left my native air,

I gaed-to come nae mair!And now I sorrow sair

For my ain dear land.

But blythely will I bide,
Whate'er may yet betide,
When ane is by my side

On this far, far strand; My Jean will soon be here, This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land.

THE VOICE OF WOE.

"The language of passion, and more peculiarly that of grief, is ever nearly the same."

An Indian chief went forth to fight,

And bravely met the foe.

His eye was keen-his step was light-
His arm was unsurpassed in might;
But on him fell the gloom of night-
An arrow laid him low.
His widow sang with simple tongue,
When none could hear or see,
Ay, cheray me!

A Moorish maiden knelt beside
Her dying lover's bed;

She bade him stay to bless his bride,
She called him oft her lord, her pride;
But mortals must their doom abide-

The warrior's spirit fled.

With simple tongue the sad one sung, When none could hear or see,

Ay, di me!

An English matron mourned her son,
The only son she bore;

A far from her his course was run,
He perished as the fight was done,
He perished when the fight was won,
Upon a foreign shore.

With simple tongue the mother sung,
When none could hear or see,

Ah, dear me!