Now the tossed bark upon life's stormy sea
Springs to its haven of eternity;

E'en now from fairer climes a purer gale

Pours its rich fragrance on the shattered sail.
Oh haste we on! 'till every trial cease

In perfect holiness and perfect peace :—

Till in that world of life, and love, and bliss,

The cup shall satisfy, we taste in this.

West Bilney Lodge,

Feb. 13, 1825.

A A

ON MEMORY.

WHEN the wrung heart, with passionate regret,
Dwells upon joys too beautiful to last,
And o'er the fond remembrance lingers yet,
As if its dreaming could recall the past;
When fades the present from the wildered sight,
As musing memory shifts the fancied scene,

Till we can almost grasp the lost delight,

Feel as we felt, and be as we have been ;Feel-yes, a livelier, tenderer beauty springs

O'er the loved features of each happy day; For memory's touch, in bright profusion, brings All, all the joy, but steals the gloom away; When that we fondly loved, and now deplore,

Glides o'er the soul like moonlight o'er the sea,

And wears a smile, perchance, it never wore,

And seems a being it could never be ;

And when, at length, those rainbow-colours fade,
Which fancy's sunbeam on the past could throw,
When clouds and tears come hurrying on instead,
And we are left to certainty and woe ;-
Left but to find our rose-twined garland dead,
To see the future darken on our view,
To mourn those joyous days for ever fled,
And vainly madden o'er the long adieu;
Oh, then we feel how empty and how vain,
Is human pleasure in its gayest dress;
We feel our sky but smiles to frown again,
And earth is not the home of happiness!
And then a sweet, pure light creeps trembling in,
Unlike romantic fancy's frolic ray,

Which seems unnoticed on the mind to win,
With the bright promise of a better day.

It is not Hope, at least, not that which says
That the loved past shall in the future live,

Which like the meteor's wild illusion plays,
And points to joys it never means to give ;
It is not Love,-for absence, time, or art,

Its soft impressions may too soon efface,

Or death's cold touch may chill the faithful heart,
Where we had fondly built our dwelling-place :
No! 'tis from worlds more bright than this below,
That trembling sunbeam draws its sacred birth,
And bids the breast its own sweet comfort know,
Too pure for sense! too beautiful for earth!
'Tis from those realms where we may shortly prove

How bright, how pure, affection's lamp may burn; Where we may gaze upon the face we love,

Nor dread the anguish of a cold return;

Where, waking memory to a second birth,

We may, untroubled, trace the path we trod, And having vainly sought for rest on earth,

May find it in the bosom of our God.

Date not known.

FROM A BROTHER TO HIS SISTER

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Он, dinna ye ken, how the daisies bloom

Suld deck the lily lea,

How the bright sun, glinting through the gloom, Suld brust the violet's mossy tomb

To twine a wreath for thee?

But, wae for the lang, lang winter daie!

Baith violet blue, and daisie gaie,

And "the flowers of the forest are a' wede away!"

I hae na wreath for thee, lassie,

I hae na wreath for thee,

Na wilding nursed by spring's ain sigh,

Na blossom springing tardilie,