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Across the dried brook's course she went,

Singing lowly, smiling slowly,
She scarcely saw the sun that spent
Its fiery force in swift descent,
She never saw the wheat was bent,
The grasses parched, the blossoms dried ;
Singing lowly, smiling slowly;

amid the drouth espied
A summer pleasaunce far and wide,
With roses and sweet violets pied.

Her eyes

DISAPPOINTMENT.

UT homeward coming all the way,

She knew the bent wheat withering lay, She saw the blossoms' dry decay, She missed the little brooklet's play. A breeze had sprung from out the south,

Sighing lowly, pacing slowly; She only felt the burning drouth, Her eyes were hot, and parched her mouthYet sweet the wind blew from the south !

And when the wind brought welcome rain,

Sighing lowly, pacing slowly; She never saw the lifting grain, But only—a lone orchard lane, Where she had waited all in vain !

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

TH

HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the

scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin',

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the briar, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom !

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain : And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower of

Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening ;

Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie !

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi’ sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum

blane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Tannahill

THE MOSS ROSE.

T

HE angel of the flowers, one day,

Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ;

That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven ;-
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose :
“O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found, where all are fair ;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.
“ Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,
“On me another grace bestow."
The spirit paused in silent thought,
What grace was there that flower had not ?
'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed ?

THE BETTER LAND.

I

HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band,

Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ?
Shall we not seek it and weep no more ?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle
boughs ?

Not there; not there, my child. Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,

And strange bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?

Not there ; not there, my child. Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral

strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?

Not there; not there, my child.
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there; it is there, my child.

Mrs. Hemans.

THE HARVEST GLEANING.

'T"

IS fifty years, next harvest moon.

How fondly I remember,

Dear wife, that sunny afternoon,
That sweet time of September!
I saw their beams of glowing light

(Soft shadows intervening)
Made thy bright face more rosy bright

While in the harvest gleaning.
All day, among the shining corn,

My gaze to thee was turning;
Oh, day of days! the love new-born

In every vein was burning!

Thy gentle voice in song I heard

Śweet as the dove's at e’ening; And all my soul in rapture stirred

While in the harvest gleaning.
We saw the harvest moon arise

In seas of rosy splendour;
A richer light was in our eyes,

A presence warm and tender;
The few words trembled on the tongue,

Dear wife, how full their meaning !
For aye! the bells rang blithe ere long

After that harvest gleaning.
Oh ! blessings on all summer hours,

And such sweet harvest weather-
Knitting two fond young hearts, like ours,

In love's bright bonds together;
For hath not love, dear wife of mine,

Still on my bosom leaning,
Made all the dark year brighter shine

Since that old harvest gleaning ?
We've shared these fifty long, long years,

Our pleasure and our sorrow;
We still may mingle smiles and tears

Till one soon-coming morrow;
And then; oh, would that both might die,

From earth our fancies weaning,
And go where Heaven's bright harvests lie
For our eternal gleaning.

Westby Gibson.

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