He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day, [away.
When my faither brak his arm, and the cow was stown
My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me.

My faither could na work, my mither could na spin,
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I could na win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye na marry me?"

My heart it said nay and I look'd for Jamie back,
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack-
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee?
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:

They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea,
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me!

I had na been a wife a week but only four,
When mournful as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could no think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame love, to marry thee,"

Sair, sair did we greet and mickle did we say,-
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away:

I wish I were dead, but am na like to dee,
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, but I care na much to spin;
I dare na think on Jamie, for that wid be a sin;
So I will do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me.

-Lady Anne Barnard.

R'

EMOVE yon skull from out the scattered heaps: [ Is that a temple where a god may dwell! Why even the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!

Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall,

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul:
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,

And l'assion's host, that never brooked control.

Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee,
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labors light!
To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,

The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right.
-Lord Byron.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear :
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!
O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day-
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned:
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"'
-John Greenleaf Whittier.

NE more unfortunate

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly― Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments, Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing! Touch her not scornfully! Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly— Not of the stains of her: All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny, Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful ;

Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers—
One of Eve's family-
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the combHer fair auburn tressesWhilst wonderment guesses, Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity

Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed-
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver

But not the dark arch,

Or the black, flowing river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurledAnywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly

No matter how coldly

BEYON

I shall be soon;

Beyond the waking and the sleeping,

Beyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the blooming and the fading

I shall be soon;

Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the rising and the setting

I shall be soon;

TEL

Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead;
Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

THE

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted!