With trembling lips poured forth this lay To sympathizing ears:—

"Oh! many a sweet beguiles the bee In gay Provence's lovely bowers, And roses garland many a tree

Entwined with fragrant flowers.

In light festoons, the clustering vine
O'ercanopies the sylvan glade,
And countless flow'rets gaily shine

Beneath its graceful shade.

The hum of glittering insect wing
Wakes music in these fairy groves,
And nightingales delight to sing,

In silvery notes, their loves!

I've seen that land of beauty dressed
In radiant summer's mantle green,
And oft does pensive memory rest

Upon each witching scene!

But sacred above all the themes,
On which in lonely hours I dwell,
Is she whose image haunts my dreams-
The gentle Isabelle!

Oft had I blessed the path I took
That led me to her cottage door;
Methought it wore a hallowed look

I ne'er had seen before.

The aged father welcomed me
Within his humble, peaceful cot,
And bade his duteous daughter see

My wants were not forgot.

"Oh yes," she answered, "father dear,
I'll make a fragrant flowery bed,
And welcome is the stranger here
To rest his weary head."

Away she tripped, with noiseless tread,
As if some Heavenly Being fair
Had left the regions of the dead
To dwell with mortals there.

I gazed upon the spot, where she
Had nimbly vanished from my sight,
The old man marked my ecstasy

And smiled with fond delight.

"Thou'rt right," he said, in accents mild"Yes, by my troth, thou judgest well, She is indeed a blessed child My darling Isabelle!

"She is my sole surviving friend, All other joys from me are fled;

And she alone is left, to tend
Her aged father's head:

"The angel of my closing years,
In undeserved mercy given,
To guide, amid this vale of tears,
My feeble steps-to heaven!"
Oft I recall the guileless joy
In which that summer glided by!
As cloudless as the canopy

Of fair Provence's sky.

The hour of prayer together spent,
Adoring HIM in accents meet,
When with united hearts we bent
Before the Mercy-seat!

Who can describe the hymn of praise,
Its soft and silvery sweetness tell,
Poured from her lips in holiest lays

As evening shadows fell.

How shall I paint the thornless bliss In which the fleeting hours went past, Mid joys-in such a world as thisToo exquisite to last?

Methinks I see the trembling tear Which stole from eyes unused to sorrow, When first I whispered in her ear,

"We part-upon the morrow!"

The old man raised his withered head, And gazed upon the azure sky: Then "Fare thee well awhile," he said, "We yet shall meet-on high!" "Nay-speak not thus, my father dear, But one short year away"-and then, "Make promise-thou wilt wander here, And visit us again.

"Daily I'll watch thy favourite vine
Put forth its verdant shade of leaves,
And train its tendrils to entwine
And trellis all the eaves.

"Fondly I'll note, when budding flowers O'erhang thy favourite window-seat;— And eager count the passing hours

Until, at length, we meet!

"Oh, quickly speed thee back again! And now," she cried, "a fond farewell! Soon will a year elapse:-till then Remember Isabelle!"

Even now, methinks, her parting words, As if prolonged by magic spell,

I passed the holy precincts, where
Her sainted mother's ashes lay:
The moonlight cold was shaded there,
Across my grave-strewn way.

On new-laid turf, with daisies fair,
The chilly moonbeams gently fell:
But what! oh!-WHAT was graven there!
"REMEMBER ISABELLE!"

ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON.

Hugh Buchanan MacPhail, born in Glasgow July 26, 1817. He was brought up and educated at Oid Kilpatrick, on the banks of the Clyde; afterwards held various situations throughout the country, and finally settled in his native city. A love attachment in early life first inspired his muse, the fruits of which appeared in a volume entitled Lyrics: Love, Freedom, and Manty Independence, published in 1856. Mr. MacPhail is also the author of the Supremacy of Woman, and is well known for his advocacy of the rights of the fair sex.

Wail for the dead! the mighty's gone,

At last by death was forced to yield;
A brighter star hath never shone
Upon this world in battle-field.

The conqueror of conquerors he-
High was the mission to him given-
Not to enslave, but make man free,

That was the voice to him from heaven!

As brave have fought, and bled, and died,
Their country from oppression save,
And all the tyrant's power defied,
And welcomed freedom or the grave;

But for his like we look in vain,

No equal his on history's pageThe chief of chiefs, the man of men,

As warrior, statesman, saint, and sage.

Sweet Erin! England cannot claim

This matchless one, nor Scotia's shoreWhile living an unbounded fame,

And now, till time shall be no more!

Sleep, warrior, sleep! with Nelson lie,

Your names will nerve our inmost heart, Should e'er renewed the battle cry

For freedom! and new life impart!

Your names! a spell on field or main, Where'er the British flag's unfurled, Till universal peace shall reign,

And war be banished from the world.

A CHRISTMAS REVERIE.

Lieut. John Malcolm, born in the Orkneys, Dec. 30, 1795; died Sept. 1835. He served as a volunteer in the Peninsular war, and was severely wounded at the battle of Toulouse. On leaving the army he took up his residence in Edinburgh, and became a constant contributor of verse and prose to the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, Literary Journal, Constable's Miscellany, and the Annuals so common in those days. From 1831 till his death he was editor of the Elinburgh Observer newspaper. In 1828 he published Ecenes of War and other Poems, followed by the Buccaneer and ether Poems. Lieut. Malcolm was remarkable for his gentle and unassuming manners, and was a very general favourite in the literary circles of Edinburgh.

MAGGY MACLANE.

James Mayne, a native of Glasgow, and nephew of the author of "The Siller Gun." He died in 1842, in the island of Trinidad, where he had gone some years previously to edit a newspaper. This admirable song was first published in 1835 in the Glasgow Journal of Genral Literature.

Doon i' the glen by the lown o' the trees,
Lies a wee theeket bield, like a bike for the bees;
But the hinnie there skepp'd-gin ye're no dour
to please--

It's virgin Miss Maggy Maclane! There's few seek Meg's shed noo, the simmer sun jookin';

It's aye the dry floor, Meg's-the day e'er sae drookin'!

But the heather-blabs hing whare the red blude's been shooken

I' bruilzies for Maggy Maclane!

Doon by Meg's howf-tree the gowk comes to woo; But the corneraik's aye fley'd at her hallan-door joo!

An' the redbreast ne'er cheeps but the weird's at his mou',

For the last o' the roses that's gane! Nae trystin' at Meg's noo-nae Hallowe'en rockins!

Nae howtowdie guttlens-nae mart-puddin' yockins!

Nae bane i' the blast's teeth blaws snell up Glendockens!

Clean bickers wi' Maggy Maclane!

Meg's auld lyart gutcher swarf'd dead i' the shawe;

Her bein, fouthy minnie,-she's aff an' awa"!
The gray on her pow but a simmerly snaw!--
The couthy, cosh Widow Maclane!

O titties be tentie! though air i' the day wi' ye,Think that the green grass may ae day be hay wi' ye!—

Think o' the leal minnie-mayna be aye wi' ye! When sabbin' for Maggy Maclane.

Lallan' joes-Hielan' joes-Meg ance had wale;
Fo'k wi' the siller, and chiefs wi' the tail!
The yaud left the burn to drink out o' Meg's pal:
The sheltie braw kent "the Maclane."
Awa' owre the muir they cam' stottin' an'
stoicherin'!

Tramper an' traveller, a' beakin' an' broicherin'! Cadgers an' cuddy-creels, oigherin'!--hoigherin"! "The lanlowpers!"-quo' Maggy Maclane.

Cowtes were to fother:-Meg owre the burn flang! Nowte were to tether:-Meg through the wood

rang!

The widow she kenn'd-na to bless or to bann!

Sic waste o' gude wooers to hain! Yet, aye at the souter, Meg grumph'd her! an' grumph'd her!

The loot-shouther'd wabster, she humph'd her! and humph'd her!

The lamiter tailor, she stump'd her! an' stump'd her!

Her minnie might groo or grane!

The tailor he likit cockleekie broo;

An' doon he cam' wi' a beck an' a boo:

Quo' Meg "We'se sune tak' the clecken aff you;"

An' plump i' the burn he's gane!

The widow's cheek redden'd; her heart it play'd thud! aye;

Her garters she cuist roun' his neck like a wuddie!
She linkit him oot; but wi' wringin' his duddies,
Her weed-ring it's burst in twain!

Wowf was the widow-to haud nor to bing!
The tailor he's aff, an' he's coft a new ring!
The deil squeeze his craig's no wordy the string!
He's waddet auld Widow Maclane!
Auld?-an' a bride! Na, ye'd pitied the tea-pat!
O saut were the skadyens! but balm's in Glen-
livat!

The haggis was bockin' oot bluters o' bree-fat,
An' hotch'd to the piper its lane!-

Doon the burnside, i' the lown o' the glen,
Meg reists her bird-lane, i' a but-an'-a-ben:
Steal doon when ye dow,-i' the dearth, gentle-

meu,

Ye'se be awmous to Maggy Maclane! Lane bauks the virgin-nae white pows now keekin'

Through key-hole an' cranny; nae cash blade stan's sleckin'

His nicherin' naigie, his gaudamous seekin'!
Alack for the days that are gane!

Lame's fa'n the souter!-some steek i' his thie!
The cooper's clean gyte, wi' a hoopin' coughee!
The smith's got sae blin'-wi' a spunk i' his e'e!--
He's tyned glint o' Maggy Maclane!
Meg brake the kirk pew-door - Auld Beukie
leuk'd near-na her!

She dunkled her pattie-Young Sneckie ne'er speir'd for her!

But the warst's when the wee mouse leuks out, wi' a tear to her,

Frae the meal-kist o' Maggy Maclane!

THE COTTAR'S SANG.

Andrew Mercer, born at Selkirk in 1775; died in Dunfermline, June 11, 1812. He was the intimate

associate of Dr. John Leyden, and Dr. A. Murray afterwards professor of oriental languages, and contributed like them various essays in prose and verse to the Edinburgh and Scots Magazines. To his literary pursuits he conjoined a love of art, and devoted himself to drawing and painting miniatures, but never attained to great eminence. Mr. Mercer was a man of gentle and amiable manners and unquestioned talent. He ultimately settled at Dunfermline, where for many years he lived by teaching, and drawing patterns for the damask manufacturers. He published a history of Dunfermline and of its celebrated abbey in 1828, and ten years later a small collection of poems entitled Summer Months among the Mountains.

The hairst now is owre,

An' the stacks are a' theekit; The barn-yard is fu',

An' the yett's fairly steekit. The potatoes are up,

An' are a' snugly pitted; The crap o' the puir man

For winter fare fitted.

O how happy the hynd

Wha's laid in for the winter, Wi' his eldin an' meal,

His cow an' bit grunter. Though he toil a' the day,

Through the cauld sleety weather, By his ingle at e'en

It's forgot a' thegither.

Syne the bairns are drappin' in Frae the neist farm-steadins, To claver owre the news,

Or speak o' new cleadins:
Ilk ane tells his tale,

The day's simple story;
An' the cottar's fireside
Is a' in its glory!

The Jockies and Jennies

Are joking and jeering, An' proud o' the braws

They ha'e won at the shearing. An' courtship is rife,

An' ilk look has a meaning, As an e'e meets an e'e,

In the edge o' the e'ening.

There's love in ilka lane,

In ilka fine gloamin'; An' bridals there will be At Martinmas coming. Their minds are a' made up, An' a' thing looks cheerie; O lang may it last,Ilk lad wi' his dearie.

ALWYN: A ROMANCE OF STUDY.

(EXTRACTS.)

James C. Moffat, born in Glencree, Gallowayshire, May 30, 1811; professor of church history in the Theological Seminary at Princeton, New Jersey. Dr. Moffat is the author of a small volume of miscellaneous poems and several volumes of prose. "Alwyn" is a poem in seven cantos, published in New York in 1876. It describes the progress of the mind of a Scottish shepherd-boy from its earliest unfoldings: its searchings after truth; the dawning of the true light, and at length its satisfaction and peaceful rest.

THE FLITTIN' O' AULD AUNTY
GARTLEY.

Alexander G. Murdoch, born in Glasgow, April, 1843. He is by trade a working engineer; and, not withstanding the disadvantage of a scanty education in youth, has become known to the public as the author of many meritorious Scotch pieces. In 1870 he contributed to the Weekly Mail newspaper a humorous poem, "The Brae o' Life," which was followed in rapid succession by others of a similar kind. In 1872 Mr. Murdoch was induced to collect and publish his poetical pieces in a volume entitled Lilts on the Doric Lyre, which has received the favourable notice of the Scottish and Canadian press.

Auld Aunty Gartley, rest her banes!
The nicht she slip't awa',

Was chair'd beside oor auld lum-check-
A wreath o' winter snaw;