Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That called on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.
And last, a matron now of sober mien,
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd
Een in my dawn of thought-Philosophy.
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,
She bore no other name than poesy;

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
That had but newly left a mother's knee,
Prattled and play'd with bird, and flower, and

stone,

As with elfin playfellows well known, And life reveal'd to innocence alone.

Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer,
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop,
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.
I see no longer! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid, who gazing sings:
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she
dwells.

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
And always fair, rare land of courtesy !
0 Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills!
And famous Arno fed with all their rills;
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,
And forests, where beside his leafy hold
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
And whets his tusks against the gnarlèd thorn;
Palladian palace with its storied balls;
Fountains, where love lies listening to their falls;
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
And Nature makes her happy home with man;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn,
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine:
And more than all, th' embrace and intertwine

Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!
'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
The new-found roll of old Mæonides; *
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart! †
O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,
Where, half-conceal'd, the eye of fancy views
Fauns, nymphs, and wingèd saints, all gracious
to thy muse!

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
And see in Dian's vest between, the ranks
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,
With that sly satyr peering through the leaves !

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?-
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvel-
lyn,

Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone-and the birch in its stead is grown.-
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;-

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

Irs balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety !

And such my infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lię, Death sang to sleep with lullaby.

* Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first introduced the works of Homer to his country.

+ I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the

Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments,

feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio: where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl. Biancafiore, had learned their letters, sets cominciò Racheo a mettere il suo officio in essecuzione them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Incon intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece legere il santo libro d' Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne freddi cuori occendere."

ROBERT TANNAHILL was born at Paisley, Scot- | land, June 3, 1774. He was slightly lame, which debarred him from the more active boyish sports, and so he used to compose riddles and other rhymes at an early age. He had a passion for music, and occasionally played the fife at a training, became expert on the flute, and finally began setting new words to old and favorite tunes. He had learned the trade of a weaver, and spent two years at it in Bolton, England, during which he wrote songs, on a rude desk attached to his loom. He returned to Paisley in

1802, and made the acquaintance of Archibald Smith, the composer, who set some of his songs to music. In 1807 Tannahill published a vol ume entitled "Poems and Songs," which was quite successful. A year or two later he was chagrined at the refusal of Constable & Co. to publish a new volume for him, and of George Thomson to give some of his songs a place in his collection. These and other discourage. ments preyed upon his mind until he became demented and drowned himself, May 17, 1810. He was unmarried.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,

While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.

LOUDOUN'S bonnie woods and braes,
I maun lea' them a', lassie ;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes

Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when Freedom bids avenge her,

Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Ha'e seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie.

"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings

Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin',

Far frae love and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar,

And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."

Oh resume thy wonted smile!

Oh suppress thy fears, lassie!
Glorious honor crowns the toil

That the soldier shares, lassie;
Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,
Till the vengeful strife is over,
Then we'll meet nae mair to sever,

Till the day we die, lassie ;
'Midst our bonnie woods and braes,
We'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
As blythe's yon lightsome lamb that plays
On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.

That head-let it rest-it is now in the mools, Tho' in life a' the warld beside it were fools; Yet o' what kind o' wisdom bis head was possest,

Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's nane that will miss 't.

Ah! Harry, my love, tho' thou ne'er shouldst return,

Till life's latest hour I thy absence will

mourn,

And memory shall fade like the leaf on the tree, Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

'LET us go, lassie, go

To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling; So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime,

Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

MY BONNY YOUNG LADDIE.

OUR bonny Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids, Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw,

Rank'd up on the green, were fair to be seen,

But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a'. His cheeks were as red as the sweet heatherbell,

Or the red western cloud looking down on

the snaw,

His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell, And the e'en o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'.

My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day, When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa',

He bade me farewell, he cried "O be leal," And his red cheeks were wet wi' the tears that did fa'.

WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED.

WHEN John and me were married,
Our hading was but sma',
For my minnie, canker't carling,
Wou'd gi'e us nocht ava';
I wair't my fee wi' canny care,
As far as it wou'd gae,
But weel I wat, our bridal bed
Was clean pease-strae.

Wi' working late and early,

We're come to what ye see,
For fortune thrave aneath our hands,
Sae eydent aye were we.

The lowe of love made labor light;
I'm sure ye'll find it sae,
When kind ye cuddle down at e'en
'Mang clean pease-strae.

The rose blows gay on cairny brae,
As weel's in birken shaw,
And love will lowe in cottage low,

As weel's in lofty ha';

Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like,

Whate'er your minnie say, Tho' ye should make your bridal bed Of clean pease-strae.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

GLOOMY winter's now awa',
Saft the westling breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw,

The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O!
Sweet the crawflower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonny sel',

My young, my artless dearie, O!

Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blythely spend the gowden day,

"Midst joys that never weary, 0! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,

Adorn the banks sae briery, O!

Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
And ilka thing is cheerie, O!
Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!