HAPPY LOVE.

SINCE the sweet knowledge I possess

That she I love is mine,

All nature throbs with happiness,

And wears a face divine.

The woods seem greener than they were,
The skies are brighter blue;

The stars shine clearer, and the air
Lets finer sunlight through.

Until I loved, I was a child,
And sported on the sands;
But now the ocean opens out,
With all its happy lands.

The circles of my sympathy
Extend from earth to heaven,

I strove to pierce a mystery,

And lo! the clue is given.

The woods, with all their boughs and leaves,

Are preachers of delight,

And wandering clouds in summer eves

Are Edens to my sight.

My confidants and comforters

Are river, hill, and grove,

And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deep,

And all that live and move.

O friendly hills! O garrulous woods!

O sympathizing air!

O many-voiced solitudes!

I know my love is fair.

I know that she is fair and true,

And that from her you've caught

NO JEWELL'D BEAUTY.

No jewell'd Beauty is my love;

Yet in her earnest face

There's such a world of tenderness,
She needs no other grace.

Her smiles and voice around my life
In light and music twine,

And dear, O very dear to me,

Is this sweet Love of mine.

O joy to know there's one fond heart

Beats ever true to me:

It sets mine leaping like a lyre,
In sweetest melody.
My soul up-springs, a Deity,

To hear her voice divine!
And dear, O very dear to me,
Is this sweet Love of mine.

If ever I have sigh'd for wealth,
'Twas all for her, I trow;
And if I win Fame's victor-wreath,

I'll twine it on her brow.

There may be forms more beautiful,
And souls of sunnier shine;
But none, O none, so dear to me,

As this sweet Love of mine.

Gerald Massey.

THE WEE THING.

Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming?
Sought she the burnie where flow'rs the haw-tree?

"Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee;

Red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses;
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"—

"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flow'rs the haw-tree.

"Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue of her saft-rolling ee;

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses;
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me!"-

"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
It was na my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart! and modest her nature!
She never loed onie till ance she loed me.

"Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary ;

Oft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee :

Fair as your face is, wer't fifty times fairer,

Young braggart, she ne'er would give kisses to thee!"-

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree: Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me."

Sair gloom'd his dark brow-blood-red his cheek grew

Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling ee!

"Ye'se rue, sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning: Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie.”—