I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, – The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve !
O lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang !

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood,

The burn sang to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abuve the burn,
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,

When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,

As

ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue ;

But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygane days and me! William Motherwell

THE LITTLE BROTHER.

AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth the best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe ;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge ;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest;
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;

In the lap of that olden forest

He lieth in peace asleep ;

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn eves

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

Alice Cary.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side;
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight:

Where are those sleepers now?

One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid:
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the lone blue sea hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed

Above the noble slain ;

He wrapped the colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one - o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers-

The last of that fair band.

And parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth;

Alas for love! if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O earth! Mrs. Hemans.