Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams!
Harmless warriors, clad in mail
Of silver breastplate, golden scale ;--
Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing-→
Fleet are ye as fleetest galley

Or pirate rover sent from Sallee;
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.

Was the sun himself your sire?
Were ye born of vital fire?

Or of the shade of golden flowers,
Such as we fetch from Eastern bowers,
To mock this murky clime of ours?
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance,
Weaving many a mazy dance;
Seeming still to grow in size
When ye would elude our eyes-
Pretty creatures! we might deem
Ye were happy as ye seem-
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleamed in far Cathay ;

And yet, since on this hapless earth
There's small sincerity in mirth,
And laughter oft is but an art
To drown the outcry of the heart;
It may be that your ceaseless gambols,
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles,
Your restless roving round and round
The circuit of your crystal bound—
Is but the task of weary pain,
An endless labour, dull and vain;
And while your forms are gaily shining,
Your little lives are inly pining!
Nay-but still I fain would dream
That ye are happy as ye seem.

Born 1797.

Thomas Haynes Bayly. {Died 1839.

ONE of the most successful of our song writers, was born 13th October 1797, at Bath. His father was a wealthy solicitor in Bath, and destined his son for the Church, but the early development of Bayly's poetical powers led to his neglect of study, and he abandoned all idea of it. In 1826 he married Miss Hayes, an Irish lady, and an incomte settled on him by his father, with the lady's fortune, enabled them to live in affluence. His songs and plays, and contributions to literature, also brought him considerable sums. "The Soldier's Tear," "I'd be a Butterfly," "Oh! no, we never mention her," &c., enjoyed an extraordinary popularity. He died in 1839.

WE MET.

WE met 'twas in a crowd-and I thought he would shun me;
He caine-I could not breathe, for his eye was upon me;
He spoke his words were cold, and his smile was unalter'd;
I knew how much he felt, for his deep-toned voice falter'd.
I wore my bridal robe, and I rivall'd its whiteness;

Bright gems were in my hair, how I hated their brightness;
He called me by my name, as the bride of another-
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother!
And once again we met, and a fair girl was near him:
He smiled, and whispered low-as I once used to hear him.
She leant upon his arm-once 'twas mine, and mine only—
I wept, for I deserved to feel wretched and lonely.
And she will be his bride! at the altar he'll give her,
The love that was too pure for a heartless deceiver.
The world may think me gay, for my feelings I smother;
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother!

THE MISLETOE BOUGH.

THE misletoe hung in the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.

The baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she with her bright eyes seem'd to be
The star of the goodly company.

"I'm weary of dancing now;" she cried;
"Here tarry a moment-I'll hide-I'll hide!

"And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace "The clue to my secret lurking place." Away she ran and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

And young Lovell cried, "Oh where dost thou hide? "I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night! and they sought her next day!
And they sought her in vain when a week pass'd away!
In the highest-the lowest-the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly-but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;

And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle-they raised the lid-
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
Oh! sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!-and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb!

William Motherwell.

{

Born 1797.
Died 1835.

Was born at Glasgow, and when yet young was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk in Paisley. In 1819 he connected himself with a maga zine, and contributed some pieces of poetry to it. In 1827, as the fruit of several years' labour, he published a collection of "Scottish Ballads," ancient and modern. He became after this successively the editor of the "Paisley Magazine," "Paisley Advertiser," and "Glasgow Courier;" in the editorship of the latter newspaper he continued till his death. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his own poems. He was busy obtaining materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was cut off by apoplexy in 1835.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The love of life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,

May weel be black gin Yule;

But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we loved ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time!-sad time !-twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To lear ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,

Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent down owre ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said,
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays-

The schule then skaled at noon-
When we ran aff to speel the braes-
The broomy braes o' June?

The throssil whistled in the wood,

The burn sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe aboon the burn,

For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

Herbert Knowles.

{

Born 1798.

Died 1817.

A NATIVE of Canterbury, whose early promise was cut short by death in his nineteenth year. The following stanzas were published in the "Quarterly Review," and soon obtained a wide circulation.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-MATT. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain;

Who hid in their turns have been hid;