The mavis wild, wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest; Now blooms the lily by the bank, I was the queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Full lightly rose I in the morn, As blithe lay down at e'en ; But as for thee, thou false woman,* Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe *Elizabeth, Queen of England, who unjustly detained her in prison. kinder stars My son 1* my son! may And ray those pleasures gild thy reign And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O, soon, to me, may summer suns And in the narrow house of death And the next flowers that deck the spring AVARICE. - George Herbert. MONEY, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe, Surely thou didst so little contribute To this great kingdom which thou now hast got, * James the First, King of Englat d. Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright; Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right,.Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee. Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich, And, while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch. THE TRUMPET. - Mrs. Hemans. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land; A hundred hills have seen the brand, A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast, And hark! -was that the sound of seas? The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye, They come not back, though all be won, The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage-altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. - Sir. W. Scott. ENCHANTRESS, farewell! who so oft has decoyed me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe; O, none but some lover, whose heart-strings are break ing, The pang that I feel at our parting can know! Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary wan ing, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, I AM not concerned to know Heir to the best part of me. Glittering stones, and golden things, I've a mighty part within, |