My soul would drink those echoes. Oh that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment, — born and dying

With the blest tone which made me! Ye toppling crags of ice!

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!

I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,

And only fall on things that still would live;

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut

And hamlet of the harmless villager. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds

Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,

Like foam from the roused ocean of

It's no in titles or in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin' muckle mair;
It's no in books; it's no in lear
To make us truly blest:

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay,
That makes us right or
wrang.

FAITH.

BURNS.

BETTER trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving,

Than doubt one heart that if be

lieved

Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Oh! in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;

Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.
MRS. KEMBLE.