NO JEWELLED 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 gie 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."—

THE LETTER.

"Awa wi' beguiling!" cried the youth, smiling:
Off went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom showing-
Fair stood the maid wi' the dark rolling ee!

"Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing?
Is it my true love here that I see?—

O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me;
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee !"

THE LETTER.

Hector Macneil.

THE set sun of my joy again ariseth,

By thy sweet letter is my soul revived, And as a sudden lamp dark sleep surpriseth,

Thy greeting starts my heart in slumber gyved; Thou hast wept o'er the closure of thy page,

And weeping words with weeping tears are blottedFrom the same fount that hath from age to age, Gush'd with the dew to all fond thoughts allotted;

Oh they do seem the eloquent presage

Of bliss hereafter, sweet though sorrow-spotted!

On "pity," "love me," "cherish," and "forget,"

Have drops down fallen-the sweet words still seem wet.

Thus, thus, on dry tears I moist tears let fall;

Would they were on thy cheek, whose rose would tinge them all!

Thomas Wade.

WE met in secret, in the depth of night

When there was none to watch us; not an eye

Save the lone dweller of the lonely sky

To gaze upon our love and pure delight;