Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,

Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart.
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow-
Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart.
And well it is for us our God should feel

Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer
May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal
On cloud-born idols of this lower air.

For if one heart in perfect sympathy

Beat with another, answering love for love,
Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie,
Nor listen for those purer strains above.

William Thom.

Born 1789.

Died 1848

A NATIVE of Inverury, in Aberdeenshire, and author of some touching poetry. His occupation was that of a weaver. After publishing in the newspapers various pieces which attracted some notice, he issued in 1844 "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver," which were well received. But distress and penury hastened his end: he died at Dundee in 1848.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By auntie, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
"Tis the puir doited loonie-the mitherless bairn.
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair,
But morning brings clutches a' reekless and stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools where her mainmy is laid
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh! speak na him harshly-he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

1790.

Bryan Walter Procter. {Bied 1874.

WRITING under the nom de plume of Barry Cornwall, was born about the year 1790. He studied for the law, and was called to the bar in 1831. His first publication was "Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems," published in 1819, which established his reputation as a poet. His other publications are numerous, and he is especially admired for his English songs, which have become great favourites. Procter is also a prose writer of some eminence. He was for many years one of the Commissioners of Lunacy. a valuable appointment, but which he resigned in 1860.

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

O THOU vast Ocean! ever-sounding Sea!
Thou vast symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world.
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast

Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.

The earth hath naught of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go:
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming;

And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies,
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose; thy summer form

Is beautiful; and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,

And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
Eternity Eternity-and Power.

Charlotte Elizabeth.

{

Born 1790

Died 1846.

BOEN at Norwich, 1st October 1790. Her father was a clergyman of the English Church. She was married when young to Mr George Phelan, After his death in 1837, she married Mr Tonna. She is best known by her religious prose writings, which are chiefly for the young.

THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE.

SOLDIER go-but not to claim

Mouldering spoils of earth-born treasure;
Not to build a vaunting name,

Not to dwell in tents of pleasure.

Dream not that the way is smooth,

Hope not that the thorns are roses;

Turn no wishful eye of youth
Where the sunny beam reposes:-
Thou hast sterner work to do,
Hosts to cut thy passage through.
Close behind thee gulfs are burning-
Forward! there is no returning.

Soldier rest!-but not for thee

Spreads the world her downy pillow;
On the rock thy couch must be,
While around thee chafes the billow:
Thine must be a watchful sleep,
Wearier than another's waking;

Such a charge as thou dost keep
Brooks no moment of forsaking.
Sleep as on the battle-field,
Girded-grasping sword and shield.
Those thou canst not name nor number
Steal upon thy broken slumber.

Soldier rise!-the war is done,

Lo! the hosts of hell are flying;
'Twas thy Lord the battle won;
Jesus vanquish'd them by dying.
Pass the stream-before thee lies

All the conquer'd land of glory;
Hark what songs of rapture rise,
These proclaim the victor's story.
Soldier, lay thy weapon down;

Quit the Cross and take the Crown:

Triumph! all thy foes are banish'd,
Death is slain and Earth has vanish'd.

David Vedder.

Born 1790

Died 1854

BORN in Orkney in 1790. He contributed largely poetical pieces to the periodicals. In 1832 he published "Orcadian Sketches," and in 1840 he issued a collected edition of his poems. Mr Vedder filled the office of tide-surveyor in Leith, and died at Edinburgh in 1854.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

TALK not of temples-there is one

Built without hands, to mankind given;

Its lamps are the meridian sun

And all the stars of heaven;

Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair;

The dome is vast immensity

All nature worships there!

The Alps arrayed in stainless snow,

The Andean ranges yet untrod,

At sunrise and at sunset glow

Like altar-fires to God.