LINES,

ON THE MINIATURE OF A YOUNG FRIEND.

DEAR faithful image of my charming maid,
Not with cold glance these eyes survey that face
Where, in each happy line, so well pourtray'd,
The soul's own lineaments I fondly trace.

Yes, innocence in youth's fresh bloom I greet;

There play the' unconscious smiles that peace.disclose, Pure as Morn's breath, as Summer's zephyrs sweet, When Eve's soft dews embalm the drooping rose.

Ah! let no canker of fell grief or pain,

Steal from that cheek its health-empurpled hue;
Still may Content breathe lightly in that mien,
Still laugh those lips, to the heart's impulse true.

Should ever Love, within that gentle breast,
Awake the tremulous, low-whispered sigh,
Short be its pangs, its tumult soon supprest,
And, chased by Hope, may chill Despondence fly.

And though unsparing Age, with deepening line,
Shall rudely mark that fair and polished brow;
Though graver matron shades may close confine
Those locks that now in wild luxuriance flow;

When Youth's warm blush shall vanish from that cheek, Yet still may Fancy lend those eyes her fire;

Still Candour in that front so cloudless speak,

Still Worth that mouth with cheering strains inspire.

"The mind's pure graces, by the virtues drest," Felt, not beheld, shall still their charm impart; That nameless charm, no pencil e'er exprest

The charm that 'scapes the eye, and steals the heart.

C. B.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF GEORGE STEVENS, ESQ.

PEACE to these reliques! once the bright attire
Of spirit sparkling with no common fire!
How oft has Pleasure in the social hour
Smiled at his wit's exhilarating power!
And Truth attested with delight intense
The serious charms of his colloquial sense!
His talents, varying as the diamond's ray,
Could strike the grave, or fascinate the gay;
His critic labours, of unwearied force,
Collected light from every distant source;
Want with such true beneficence he cheered,
All that his bounty gave, his zeal endeared.
Learning as vast as mental power could seize,
In sport displaying, and with graceful ease,
Lightly the stage of chequered life he trod,
Careless of chance, confiding in his God.

W. HAYLEY, ESQ.

SONG.

THE snaw is driftin' owre the plains,
An' ravin' thro' the groves;
The hirsel i' the fauld remains,
An' hungrie maukin roves;

An' cauld an dark the wintrie night,
An' distant Nancy's bower;
Yet toil an' danger tak their flight,
At Love's appointed hour!

Forth fra my neebour lads I steal, wrap me i' my plaid;

An'

An' Love's enraptur'd joys to feel,
Muse on my bonnie maid

Her name's the burden of my sang,
When wandrin' owre the moor,
To meet my joe the birks amang,
At Love's appointed hour!

Tho' doom'd to toil the lee-lang day,
An' bear the bitter blast,
I cheerfu' hail the morning ray,
Forgetfu' o' the past.

My Nancy's love is mair to me,
Than outher walth or power-
How sma' their joys, if paired they be
With Love's appointed hour!

Nae artfu', slee, affected wiles,
My Nancy ever tried,

For, if she had, sic sillie toils

My bosom had defied:

In native beauties, unadorned,

She smiled:-I owned their power,

An' gave my heart, which she nae scorned,
At Love's appointed hour!

Whan pleasure bids my heart adieu,
Oppressed wi' anxious care,
Hope, smilin', opens to my view
A prospect heavenlie fair;

Whan Nancy, in her peerless charms,
Shall deign to bless my bower,
An' wi' her beauties fill my arms,
At Love's appointed hour!

Inverleithen.

J. N.

THE MANIAC BOY.

On addressing a Woman weeping at a Grave in a Village Church-Yard.

AND why thus waste your evening hours By this mis-shapen mossy grave?

And why thus strew the sweetest flowers, And shed your tears in silent showers, Where night-shade and the tall weeds wave?

Beneath this sod, bedewed with tears, And decked with many a floweret wild, Reflection oft her altar rears,

For here a thousand hopes and fears Lie buried with my maniac child.

I've housed him from the wind and rain,

From snows that fell in winter wild;

I've clothed him o'er and o'er again,
And with my labour did maintain
Him whom I loved, my maniac child,

What time the day-star sunk to rest,
He'd scent the balmy breeze of morn;
Climbing the neighbouring mountain's crest,
Or blow the village herdsman's horn,

To break the drowsy ploughman's rest.