O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing,
If it be with instruction fraught;

That which will closest and longest cling,

Is alone worth a serious thought:

Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead?

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness and beauty and strength to thee!

BARTON.

CLOSE OF A BEAUTIFUL DAY.

THE day declines, and to his couch
The sun is wheeling. What a world of pomp
The heavens put on in homage to his power!
Romance hath never hung a richer sky, -
Or sea of sunshine, o'er whose aureate deep
Triumphal barks of beauteous form career,
As though the clouds held festival, to hail
Their god of glory to his western home.
And now the earth is mirror'd on the skies!
While lakes and valleys, drown'd in dewy light,
And rich delusions, dazzlingly array'd,
Form, float, and die in all their phantom joy.
At length the sun is thron'd; but from his face
A flush of beauty o'er creation flows,

That brightens into rapturous farewell!
Then faints to paleness; for the day hath sunk
Beneath the waters, dash'd with ruby dyes,
And twilight in her nun-like meekness comes;

The air is fragrant with the soul of flowers,
The breeze comes panting like a child at play,
While birds, day-worn, are couch'd in leafy bowers,
And, calm as clouds, the sunken billows sleep:
The dimness of a dream o'er nature steals,
Yet hallows it; a hush'd enchantment reigns;
The mountains to a mass of mellowing shade
Are turn'd, and stand like temples of the night;
While field, and forest, fading into gloom,
Depart, and rivers whisper sounds of fear.

R. MONTGOMERY.

MY LIBRARY.

My days amid the dead are past;
Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:

My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with a humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

SOUTHEY.

LAMENT.

"AND art thou cold, and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?

For thee, who lov'd the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exil❜d line,

E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd pine!

"What groans
shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O woe for Alpine's honour'd pine!

"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,

Ev'n she, so long belov'd in vain,

Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd pine."

SCOTT.

THE ALPS AT DAYBREAK.

THE sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck thro' the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass. 1

The goats wind slow their wonted way
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

ROGERS.

There are passes in the Alps, where travellers are obliged to move on in silence, and even, it is said, to muffle the bells of their mules, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above.

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,

I

may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my

Arab steed;

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind.

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I be

hind.

The stranger hath thy bridle rein- thy master hath his gold

Fleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell: thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! these free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare

The silky mane I braided once, must be another's

care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again;

Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant

sun and sky,

Thy master's home, from all of these, my exil'd one must fly.