Whereof his closest knoweth not the plan,— Can aught dwell there save self and solitude? II. No other self walks with me o'er its floors; The nearest, dearest, truest of my friends Knows but the vestibule; nor ever wends Beyond the silence of its guarded doors. III. The reflex of a smile is sometime thrown, IV. The crypt is void, although a dear dead face, V. O small white hand now clasping nothingness! O voice of song! could she in life have fill'd The inner chamber and its aching still'd? Nay- God alone must fill it--nothing less! THE PEARL OF PEACE. A BIVALVE feeding in the warm salt sea The creature hides it in a dew-like rain From outer seas of passion, seas of strife, QUATRAINS. AMBITION. The royal eagle hawketh not for flies, Nor mates the soaring skylark with the wren; So, scorning narrow aims of lesser men, Move to their goal, the minds of high emprise. FRIENDSHIP. I. Some Friendships are like leaves; when skies are fair Their green flags flutter, making glad the day; She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings, Till o'er her beat the pulsings of thy wings. -Blow, Wild March Wind. ROSES. But a cry, as of pain, arose in Eden A sharp cry, from the lips of Eve, embower'd Upon the mirror-surface of the mind The Beautiful imprints itself, in shades And colors of its own, and thenceforth lives, O eyes! where dwelt the witchery of power, O hair of night! not flowing light and free SILENCE. The wheel is silent, for the stream is dry, - A Memory. THE ROBERT GILFILLAN. HE sweet and plaintive lyric which preserves the name of Gilfillan takes its place among our standard songs as one of the best, if not the best of its kind. Its author was born in Dunfermline, in 1798, in very humble circumstances. After learning the trade of a cooper in Leith, he became a clerk in a wine-merchant's office, and in 1837, was appointed collector of poor-rates for the burgh of Leith. He held this appointment till his death, which took place in 1850. Two editions of his poems have been published; but though some others of them are well written, none comes up to the standard of "Why Left I My Hame." J. R. THE EXILE'S SONG. Tune-"My Ain Countrie." OH, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh, why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie! The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie! Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every woe, |