She thought to catch the distant strain,
With head up-raised and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art.

In listening mood she seemed to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

SONG OF MEG MERRILIES AT THE BIRTH OF THE INFANT.

"She sat upon a broken corner-stone in the angle of a paved apartment, part of which she had swept clean to afford a smooth space for the evolutions of her spindle. A strong sunbeam, through a lofty and narrow window, fell upon her wild dress and features, and afforded her light for her occupation; the rest of the apartment was very gloomy. Equipt in a habit which mingled the national dress of the Scottish common people with something of an eastern costume, she spun a thread, drawn from wool of three different colours, black, white, and gray, by assistance of those ancient implements of housewifery now almost banished from the land, the distaff and spindle. As she spun, she sung what seemed to be a charm. Mannering, after in vain attempting to make himself master of the exact words of her song, afterwards attempted the following paraphrase of what, from a few intelligible phrases, he concluded to be its purport :"

TWIST ye, twine ye! even so,

Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain,
Pleasure soon exchanged for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear.

Now they wax, and now they dwindle
Whirling with the whirling spindle.
Twist ye, twine ye! even so,

Mingle human bliss and woe.

SONG OF MEG MERRILIES FOR THE PARTING SPIRIT.

"Upon a lair composed of straw, with a blanket stretched over it, lay a figure, so still, that, except that it was not dressed in the ordinary habiliments of the grave, Brown would have concluded it to be a corpse. On a steadier vi he perceived it was only on the point of becoming so, for he heard one or two of those low, deep, and hard

drawn sighs, that precede dissolution when the frame is tenacious of life. A female figure, dressed in a long cloak, sat on a stone by this miserable couch; her elbows rested upon her knees, and her face, averted from the light of an iron lamp beside her, was bent upon that of the dying person. She moistened his mouth from time to time with some liquid, and between whiles sung, in a low monotonous cadence, one of those prayers, or rather spells, which, in some parts of Scotland, and the north of England, are used by the vulgar and ignorant to speed the passage of a parting spirit, like the tolling of the bell in Catholic days. She accompanied this dismal sound with a slow rocking motion of her body to and fro, as if to keep time with her song. The words ran nearly thus:"

WASTED, weary, wherefore stay,

Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away;-.

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed,
Saints to help thee at thy need; -
Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone,
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,—
Gasp thy gusp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.

WHY SIT'ST THOU BY THAT RUINED hall.

"The window of a turret, which projected at an angle with the wall, and thus came to be very near Lovel's apartment, was half open, and from that quarter he heard again the same music which had probably broken short his dream. With its visionary character it had lost much of its charms-it was now nothing more than an air on the harpsichord, tolerably well performed-such is the caprice of imagination as affecting the fine arts. A female voice sung, with some taste and great simplicity, something between a song and a hymn, in words to the following effect:"

"WHY sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass'd away?"—

"Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried;
"So long enjoy'd, so oft misused

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!

"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away:
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem mine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,

When time and thou shalt part for ever.”

REBECCA'S HYMN.

'It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn, which we have ventured thus to translate into English: "

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays
With priest's and warrior's voice beten.
No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone:
Our fathers would not know thy ways,
And thou has left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by burning streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.
But thou hast said, The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

ROMAN CATHOLIC HYMN FOR THE SOUL OF THE DECEASED.

"Four maidens, Rowena leading the choir, raised a hymn for the soul of the deceased, of which we have only been able to decipher two or three stanzas:

DUST unto dust,

To this all must;

The tenant hath resign'd
The faded form

To waste and worm-
Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown,

To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain

Shall purge the stain

Of actions done below.

In that sad place,
By Mary's grace,

Brief may thy dwelling be!

Till prayers and alms,

And holy psalms,

Shall set the captive free.

ANNOT LYLE'S SONG.

"A little Gaelic song, in which she, expressed her feelings, has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy Alexander M'Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines: "_

WERT thou, like me, in life's low vale,

With thee how blest, that lot I'd share ;

With thee I'd fly wherever gale
Could waft, or bounding galley bear.

But, parted by severe decree,

Far different must our fortunes prove;
May thine be joy-enough for me

To weep and pray for him I love.

The pangs this foolish heart must feel,
When hope shall be forever flown,

No sullen murmur shall reveal,

No selfish murmurs ever own.

Nor will I, through life's weary years,
Like a pale drooping mourner move,
While I can think my secret tears
May wound the heart of him I love.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

MONTGOMERY is an amiable and pleasing writer, whose compositions, both prose and poetry, display a delightful fancy, and a feeling heart. His productions are particularly valuable, for their excellent moral and religious tendency. He is one of the few poets, whose volumes we may read through, without finding anything to shock the most refined and devotional

taste.

PSALM CIII.

O MY Soul, with all thy powers,
Bless the Lord's most holy name;
O my soul, till life's last hours,
Bless the Lord, his praise proclaim;
Thine infirmities he heal'd;

He thy peace and pardon seal'd.

He with loving kindness crown'd thee,
Satisfied thy mouth with good;
From the snares of death unbound thee,
Eagle-like thy youth renew'd:
Rich in tender mercy he,

Slow to wrath, to favour free.

He will not retain displeasure,
Though awhile he hide his face;
Nor his God-like bounty measure
By our merit, but his grace;

As the heaven the earth transcends,
Over us his care extends.

Far as east and west are parted,
He our sins hath sever'd thus ;

As a father loving-hearted

Spares his son, he spareth us;

For he knows our feeble frame,
He remembers whence we came.

Mark the field flower where it groweth,
Frail and beautiful;-anon,

When the south wind softly bloweth,
Look again, the flower is gone;
Such is man; his honors pass,
Like the glory of the grass.