HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.

11

Here's to thee, my Scottish Lassie !—though I know that not for me

Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;

Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by,

Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful eye;

Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,—

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! when I meet thee in the throng

Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely along,

I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form,

As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm;

And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee,

And for once, my Scottish lassie ! dance a giddy dance with thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-I shall think of thee at even,

When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven;

I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every wind that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandon'd oak, its wither'd autumn leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea, I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often think

of thee.

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HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-in my sad and lonely hours,

The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers ;

Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye,

Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky; Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree,

Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's to thee my Scottish lassie !-though my muse must soon be dumb,

(For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, are come,)

Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high,

And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye;

Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for me,

Still to thee, my Scottish lassie ! still I'll drink a health to thee.

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee;

May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me!

May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,

Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!

And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall

be,

Still a health, my Scottish lassie ! still a hearty health to thee!

WEEP NOT FOR HER!

BY D. M. MOIR.

WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright,
Like flowers that know not what it is to die,
Like long linked shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth,
And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dews.
Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,

She passed, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven :
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,

As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be :
Weep not for her !

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes,

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WEEP NOT FOR HER.

Victorious over death to her appears,
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back,
So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-and lead thee on :
Weep not for her!

BETTER MOMENTS.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

My mother's voice! how oft doth creep
Its cadence on my lonely hours?
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air

Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
The book of nature, and the print

Of beauty on the whispering sea, Give aye to me some lineament

Of what I have been taught to be.

My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few miserable years;
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
I have been out at eventide

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnished like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing ;-
When bursting leaves and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that makes the pulses pass

With wilder fleetness, thronged the night;

When all was beauty-then have I,

With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on wings of Araby,

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung.
And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain;
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,
I've poured her low and fervent prayer,
That our eternity might be,

To rise in Heaven like stars at night,
And tread a living path of light!

I have been on the dewy hills

When night was stealing from the dawn

And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn

In the gray east-when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees,

A melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze, And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance