Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory,
We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

IV.

THOU ART NOT FALSE.

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought ;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought;
"Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.

to receive and for ever conceal the sacred remains of the illustrious chief, our poet movingly expresses the sorrow of the troops, as displayed even in the very act of consignment, "Slowly and sadly they laid him down." He adverts, in a highly descriptive strain, to the martial state in which the hero was buried, "From the field of his fame fresh and gory," and by a single but comprehensively significant line, he describes him as "Left alone in his glory." [Of course the authorship of these verses is now known to every one. They give poetical immortality to the name of Wolfe.-Editor, 1872.]

But she who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doomed to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warmed? Sincere, but swift in sad transition,

As if a dream alone had charmed? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming?

V.

TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN.

Oh! I hae lost my silken snood,
That tied my hair sae yellow;

I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loe'd,
He was a gallant fellow.

Then twine it weel, my bonny dow,
And twine it well, the plaiden ;
The lassie lost her silken snood
In pu'ing of the bracken.

He prais'd my een sae bonny blue,
Sae lily white my skin, O;
And syne he prie'd my bonny mou',
And sware it was nae sin, O.
Then twine it weel, &c.

But he has left the lass he loo'd,
His ain true love forsaken,
Which gars me sair to greet the snood,
I lost amang the bracken.

Then twine it weel, &c.

VI.

SONG TO MARGARET.

In summer when nature her mantle displays,
Of the richest and loveliest hue,

How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks,
To wander, dear Margaret, with you.

How sweet 'tis to look at the red blushing cloud, And smile of the azure blue sky,

But sweeter, far sweeter, the blush on thy cheek, And sweeter the smile of thine eye.

And when in the bosom of ocean the sun
Has sunk for a time from the view,

Still lovely the scene, when by moonlight beheld,
Of a soft and a silvery hue.

But what are the richest and loveliest scenes,
That nature or art can display,

If wanting my Margaret, nor art can excel,
Nor summer itself can look gay.

VII.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Oh! sure my looks must pity wake,-
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And now I am an Orphan Boy.

L

Por folk did how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's try came,
Along the crowded streets to fy.
And see the lighted windows Same:
To force me home my mother sought ;
She could not bear to see my joy :
For with my father's life 'twas buzzti,
And made me a poor Orphan Boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud ; My mother, shuddering, stopp'd her ears; "Rejoice! Rejoice!" still cried the crowd. My mother answered with her tears. "Why are you crying thus," said I, "While others laugh and shout with joy !” She kissed me--and, with such a sigh ! She called me her poor Orphan Boy.

"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,
As in her face I look'd and smil'd ;
My mother through her tears replied,
"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!”
And now they've toll'd my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy.
O Lady-I have learn'd too well
What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed !
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide,--