THE FAITHLESS MOURNER.

WHEN thy smile was still clouded in gloom,
When the tear was still dim in thine eye,
I thought of the virtues, scarce cold in the tomb,
And I spoke not of love to thy sigh!

I spoke not of love; yet the breast,

Which mark'd thy long anguish,—deplore The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadst bless'd, Though silent, was loving thee more!

How soon wert thou pledged to my arms,

Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day;

And thine eye grateful turn'd, oh, so sweet were its charms, That it more than atoned the delay.

I fear'd not, too slow of belief

I fear'd not, too proud of thy heart,

That another would steal on the hour of thy grief,

That thy grief would be soft to his art.

Thou heardst- and how easy allured,

Every vow of the past to forsware;

The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured, Thou couldst smile, as thou gav'st to despair.

Ah, think not my passion has flown!
Why say that my vows now are free?

Why say-yes! I feel that my heart is my own;
I feel it is breaking for thee.

THE LUTE.

AH! do not bid me wake the lute,
It once was dear to Henry's ear.
Now be its voice for ever mute,

The voice which Henry ne'er can hear.

Though many a month has pass'd since Spring,
His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew,
One whisper of those chords would bring,
In all its grief, our last adieu.

The songs he loved-'twere sure profane
To careless Pleasure's laughing brow
To breathe; and oh! what other strain
To Henry's lute could love allow?

Though not a sound thy soul hath caught,
To mine it looks, thus softly dead,

A sweeter tenderness of thought

Than all its living strings have shed.

Then ask me not-the charm was broke;
With each loved vision must I part;

If gay to every ear it spoke,

'Twould speak no longer to my heart.

Yet once too blest!-the moonlit grot,
Where last I gave its tones to swell;
Ah! the last tones-thou heardst them not—
From other hands than mine they fell.

Still, silent slumbering, let it keep

That sacred touch! And oh! as dim To life, would, would that I could sleep, Could sleep, and only dream of him!

WILLIAM CHALMERS.

He

WILLIAM CHALMERS was born at Paisley in 1779. carried on the business of a tobacconist and grocer in his native town, and for a period enjoyed considerable prosperity. Unfortunate reverses caused him afterwards to abandon merchandise, and engage in a variety of occupations. At different times he sought employment as a dentist, a drysalter, and a book distributor; he sold small stationery as a travelling merchant, and ultimately became keeper of the refreshment booth at the Paisley railway station. He died at Paisley on the 3d of November 1843. Chalmers wrote respectable verses on a number of subjects, but his muse was especially of a humorous tendency. Possessed of a certain versatility of talent, he published, in 1839, a curious production with the quaint title, "Observations on the Weather in Scotland, shewing what kinds of weather the various winds produce, and what winds are most likely to prevail in each month of the year." His compositions in verse were chiefly contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.

SING ON.

AIR—“ The Pride of the Broomlands.”

SING on, thou little bird,

Thy wild notes sae loud,

O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree;
Aft beneath thy birken bow'r
I have met at e'ening hour

My young Jamie that's far o'er the sea.

But why should I mourn,
The seasons will return,

And verdure again clothe the lea;
The flow'rets shall spring,

And the saft breeze shall bring,

My dear laddie again back to me.

Thou star! give thy light,

Guide my lover aright,

Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free;

Now gold I hae in store,

He shall wander no more,

No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.