TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray My Mary from my heart was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined am'rous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, Time but the impression stronger makes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? BURNS. VERSES, LEFT AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE. O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above! When for this scene of peace and love The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, To bless his filial little flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes Their hope their stay--their darling youth In manhood's dawning blush Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish! The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on every hand- When soon or late they reach that coast, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in heaven! BURNS. HUMAN LIFE. THE lark has sung his carol in the sky; The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby. Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, ""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." And soon again shall music swell the breeze; And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; He rests in holy earth with them that went before.— It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! ROGERS. TO A BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight; Yet wert thou once a worm-a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and slept! And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! ROGERS. MY NATIVE VALE. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close to my cot she tells her tale, To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange groves and myrtle bowers, With my loved lute's romantic sound; The shepherd's horn at break of day, Sung in the silent green-wood shade; ROGERS. THE RUINS OF PÆSTUM. THEY stand between the mountains and the sea; The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, |