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“My father, my father, and seest thou not
The Erl King's daughters in yon dim spot ? "
“My son, my son, I see and I know
'T is the old gray willow that shimmerso so.”

“I love thee; thy beauty has ravished my sense;
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence.”
“O father, the Erl King now puts forth his arm .
O father, the Erl King has done me harm . "

The father shudders; he hurries on ;
And faster he holds his moaning son ;
He reaches his home with fear and dread,
And lo! in his arms the child was dead :


Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea;
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing ;

The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland-echoes ring;

* Gleams with an uncertain light.

The mavis wild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;

In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi’ care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets among;
But I, the queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strong.

I was the queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been ;
Full lightly rose I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en;
And I’m the sovereign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie, in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,”
My sister and my foe
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall go;
The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;
Nor the balm that drops on wounds of wo
Frae woman's pitying e'e. -

* Elizabeth, Queen of England, who unjustly detained her in prison.

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My son o my son may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine ;
And rhay those pleasures gild thy reign
That ne'er wad blink on mine !
God keep thee frae thy mother's foes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me !

O, soon, to me, may summer Suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn
And in the narrow house of death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave.

AWARICE. George Herbert.

Money, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Whence comest thou, that thou art so fresh and fine
I know thy parentage is base and low;
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.

Surely thou didst so little contribute
To this great kingdom which thou now hast got,
That he was fain, when thou wast destitute,
To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.

* James the First, King of England.

Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright;
Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we
Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right —
Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee.

Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich,
And, while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.

THE TRUMPET. — Mrs. Hemams.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land; –
Light up the beacon-pyre 1–
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.
A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast, —
And hark! — was that the sound of seas? -
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye, —
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side ;

E’en for the marriage-altar crowned,
The lover quits his bride.


And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread —

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead


ENCHANTRESS, farewell ! who so oft has decoyed me,
At the close of the evening, through woodlands to
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.
Farewell ! and take with thee thy numbers wild speak-
The language alternate of rapture and woe;
O, none but some lover, whose heart-strings are break

ling, The pang that I feel at our parting can know !

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came
Or pale disappointment, to darken my way,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day !
But when friends drop around us in life's weary wan-
The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain,

And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain;

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