IN IMITATION OF THE LAYS OF THE OLDEN TIME .

" Come , list to the lay of the olden time, "
A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:
" The scene is laid in a foreign clime,
" A century back — and love is the theme. "
Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme,
Of lady and lord of the olden time
" At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair
" Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime:
" Her beads she numbered in silent prayer

The spring-time of love
Is both happy and gay,
For joy sprinkles blossoms
And balm in our way;
The sky, earth, and ocean,
In beauty repose,
And all the bright future
Is coleur de rose .

The summer of love
Is the bloom of the heart,
When hill, grove, and valley,
Their music impart;
And the pure glow of heaven
Is seen in fond eyes,
As lakes show the rainbow

Come , come to me, love!
Come, love! — Arise!
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice —
Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water —
My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! — My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
We 'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! — The day
Brings warder and cloister!
Away, then — away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!

W E'VE muckle to vex us, puir sons o' a day,
As we journey along on life's wearisome way;
But what are the troubles with which we're opprest,
If Love makes our bosoms the hame o' her rest?

When Love lichts the hearthstane, there's joy in the ha',
And a sunshiny streak on ilk bosom doth fa';
The ingle blinks blither, affections increase,
And the cottage she turns to a palace o' peace.

Where'er she approaches, a' hearts grow sincere;
She hallows a' places, mak's ev'ry spot dear;
For wrang canna breathe in the sphere o' her grace,

I LOVE the night when the moon streams bright
On flowers that drink the dew —
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
I love, I love, love — you!

I love to stray at the close of day,
Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night — the glorious night —
When hearts beat warm and true;
But far above the night, I love,

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION.

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;

THE SOUL THAT WAS SHROUDED .

I.

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night
A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light;
And the lute, that so long lorn and tuneless had hung,
Once more with the wild notes of melody rung!

II.

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile, —
Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile?
Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve,
Then leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve?

III.

The light is gone by — and the music is o'er,

AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE ?

I.

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire?
Ah! beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II.

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,
That just lends its light;
But — when sorrow's night
Is deepest — withdraws its beam, Mary!

III.

'Tis a passionate sense refined,
That spells the enthusiast's mind;

LEIGH HUNT .

Despite misfortune, poverty, the dearth
Of simplest justice to his heart and brain, —
This gracious Optimist lived not in vain;
Rather, he made a partial Heaven of Earth;
For whatsoe'er of pure and cordial birth
In body or soul, dawned on him, he was fain
To bless and love, as an immortal gain,
A thing divine, of fair immaculate worth: —
The clearest, cleanest nature given to man
In these, our latter days, methinks was his,
With instincts which alone did bring him bliss;

(Lowell)

Dead he lies at Elmwood,
Who sang of human fortitude;
Who voiced the higher, clearer way
By which all nobler spirits may
Rise to the rims of God's pure light
Over the edges of earth's night;
Who sang of manhood's highest best,
Like some sweet Arnold of the West,
With more of kinship in his blood
With the great struggling human brood.
With more of lyric in his note,
More of the clarion in his throat,
Tuned to the brawnier West,
He sang the songs our men love best.