On thy green banks I dream.

Yes, dream! in sooth I can no more,
For as thy murmurs roll,
They wake the ancient melodies

That stirred my infant soul.

I've told thee, one by one, the thoughts;
Strange shapeless forms were they,
That hung around me fearfully

In childhood's dreamy day;
And still thy mystic music spake
Dimly articulate,

Yielding meet answer to the dreams
That shadowed forth my fate.

I've wept by thee a sorrowing child;
I've sported, mad with glee,
And still thou wert the only one
That seemed to care for me;
For in whatever mood I came
To wander by thy brim,
Thy murmurs were most musical,
Soul-soothing as a hymn.

I've wandered far in other lands,
And mixed with stranger men,
But still my heart untravelled sought
Repose within thy glen.

The pictures of my memory

Were fresh as they were limned,

Nor change of scene nor lapse of years

Their lustre ever dimmed.

William Motherwell.

Earn, the River.

TO THE RIVER EARN.

HOU, mountain stream, whose early torrent course

THOU

Hath many a drear and distant region seen, Windest thy downward way with slackened force, As with the journey thou hadst wearied been; And, all enamored of these margins green, Delight'st to wander with a sportive tide; Seeming with refluent current still to glide Around the hazel banks that o'er thee lean.

Like thee, wild stream! my wearied soul would roam (Forgetful of life's dark and troublous hour), Through scenes where Fancy frames her fairy bower, And Love, enchanted, builds his cottage-home: But, time and tide wait not, and I, like thee, Must go where tempests rage, and wrecks bestrew the sea!

Thomas Pringle.

Edinburgh.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers,

Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!

From marking wildly scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honored shade.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labor plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendor rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail,

And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes the adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine !

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And marked with many a seamy scar.
The ponderous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled the invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Famed heroes! had their royal home.
Alas, how changed the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild wandering roam,
Though rigid law cries out, "T was just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruined gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore.

Even I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!

From marking wildly scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honored shade.

Robert Burns.

NOT

EDINBURGH.

TOT here need my desponding rhyme.
Lament the ravages of time,

As erst by Newark's riven towers,
And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers.
True, Caledonia's queen is changed,
Since, on her dusky summit ranged,
Within its steepy limits pent,
By bulwark, line, and battlement,
And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrisoned she stood,
Denying entrance or resort,
Save at each tall embattled port;
Above whose arch, suspended, hung
Portcullis spiked with iron prong.
That long is gone, but not so long,
Since, early closed, and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate,
Whose task, from eve to morning tide,
A wicket churlishly supplied.

Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,
Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,
When safe amid thy mountain court
Thou sitt'st, like empress at her sport,