O'er mountains inverted, the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching;
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,

No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill:

Young Malcolm, at distance couched, trembling the whileMacgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom;
The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom;
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed;

She wimpled the water to weather and lee,
And heaved as if born on the waves of the sea.
Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen;
The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away, over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke
As slumbering he dozed on the shelve of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.
Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down or the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;
"Macgregor! Macgregor!" he bitterly cried;
"Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied.
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream;
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away-
Macgregor is vanished forever and aye!

AT THE ORATORIO.

'Twas at the oratorio

In Music Hall a year ago

(I think 'twas the "Creation"), Two ladies sat in front of me, Who carried on incessantly

A whispered conversation.

Though chorus, solos, all were fine,
And Gerster's arias divine,

They never seemed to hear them;
But, breathless, chattered on-I trust
Unconscious of the deep disgust
Of all the people near them.

At length a movement soft and slow
Changed to a loud prestissimo,

The mighty organ shivered-
With one tremendous choral sweep
The music burst; then into deep,
Intensest silence quivered.

And in that hush, profound and still,
A woman's voice, high-pitched and shrill,
Was plainly heard to utter,

In tones adjusted to the roar
Of music that had gone before,
"Why! we fry ours in butter!"

HIGHER!

Higher! It is a word of noble import. It lifts the soul of man from low and groveling pursuits, to the achievement of great and noble deeds, and ever keeps the object of its aspiration in view, till his most sanguine expectations are fully realized.

Higher! lisps the infant that clasps its parent's knee, and makes its feeble effort to rise from the floor. It is the first inspiration of childhood to burst the narrow confines of the cradle, and to exercise those feeble, tottering limbs, which are to walk forth in the stateliness of manhood.

Higher! echoes the proud school-boy in his swing; or, as he climbs the tallest tree of the forest, that he may look down upon his less adventurous comrades with a flush of exultation,-and abroad over the fields, the meadows, and his native village.

Higher! earnestly breathes the student of philosophy and nature. He has a host of rivals; but he must excel them all. The midnight oil burns dim; but he finds light and knowledge in the lamps of heaven, and his soul is never weary even when the last of them is hid by the splendors of the morning.

And HIGHER! his voice thunders forth, when the dignity of manhood has mantled his form, and the multitude is listening with delight to his oracles, burning with eloquence, and ringing like true steel in the cause of freedom and right. And when time has changed his locks to silver,-when the young and the old unite to do him honor, he still breathes forth from bis generous heart fond wishes for their welfare.

HIGHER YET! He has reached the apex of earthly honor; yet his spirit burns as warm as in youth, though with a steadier and paler light. And even now, while his frail tenement begins to admonish him, that "the time of his departure is at hand," he looks forward, with rapturous anticipation, to the never-fading glory, attainable only in the presence of the Most High.

THE HAT.

RECITED BY M. COQUELIN, OF THE COMEDIE FRANCAISE.

MISE EN SCENE: A gentleman holding his hat.

Well, yes! On Tuesday last the knot was tied,—
Tied hard and fast; that cannot be denied.

I'm caught, I'm caged, from the law's point of view,
Before two witnesses, good men and true.

I'm licensed, stamped: undo the deed who can;
Three hundred francs made me a married man.

Who would have thought it! Married! How? What for?

I who was ranked a strict old bachelor;

I who through halls with married people crammed
Iufused a kind of odor of the damned;

I who declined-and gave lame reasons why-
Five, six, good comfortable matches; I

Who every morning when I came to dress
Found I had one day more, and some hairs less;
I whom all mothers slander and despise;
Because girls find no favor in my eyes-
Married! A married man! Be-yond-a-doubt!
How, do you ask, came such a thing about?
What prompted me to dare connubial bliss?
What worked the wondrous metamorphosis?
What made so great a change,-a change like that?
Imagine. Guess. You give it up?

A hat!

A hat, in short, like all the hats you see;

A plain silk stove-pipe hat. This did for me.
A plain black hat, just like the one that's here.
A hat?

One day this winter I went out to dine.
All was first-rate,-the style, the food, the wine.
A concert afterward-en regle-just so.
The hour arrived. I entered, bowing low,
My heels together. Then I placed my hat

On something near, and joined the general chat.
At half past eight we dined. All went off well;
Trust me for being competent to tell!

I sat between two ladies-mute as fishes--
With nothing else to do but count the dishes.
I learned each item in each course by heart.
I hate tobacco, but as smoke might part
Me from those ladies, with a sober face
I took a strong cigar, and kept my place.
The concert was announced for half-past ten,
And at that hour I joined a crowd of men.
The ladies, arm to arm, sweet, white, we found,
Like rows of sugared almonds, seated round.
I leaned against the door-there was no chair.
A stout, fierce gentleman, got up with cera

(A cuirassier I set him down to be),

Leaned on the other door-post, hard by me,
Whilst far off in the distance some poor girl
Sang, with her love-lorn ringlets out of cur,
Some trashy stuff of love and love's distress.
I could see nothing, and could hear still less.
Still, I applauded, for politeness' sake.

Next a dress-coat of fashionable make
Came forward and began. It clad a poet.
That's the last mode in Paris. Did you know it?
Your host or hostess, after dinner, chooses
To serve you up some effort of the Muses,
Recited with vim, gestures, and by-play
By some one borrowed from the great Francais.
I blush to write it; poems, you must know,
All make me sleepy; and it was so now.
For as I listened to the distant drone

Of the smooth lines, I felt my lids droop down,
And a strange torpor I could not ignore
Came creeping o'er me.

"Heavens! suppose I snore!

Let me get out," I cried, " or else-"

I cast my eyes around to find my hat.

With that

The console where I laid it down, alas!
Was now surrounded (not a mouse could pass)
By triple rows of ladies gayly dressed,

Who fanned and listened calmly, undistressed.
No man through that fair crowd could work his way.
Rank behind rank rose heads in bright array.
Diamonds were there, and flowers, and, lower still,
Such lovely shoulders! Not the smallest thrill
They raised in me. My thoughts were of my hat.
It lay beyond where all those ladies sat,
Under a candelabrum, shiny, bright,

Smooth as when last I brushed it, full in sight,
Whilst I, far off, with yearning glances tried
Whether I could not lure it to my side.

66

Why may my hand not put thee on my head,

And quit this stifling room?" I fondly said.

66

Respond, dear hat, to a magnetic throb.

Come, little darling, cleave this female mob.

Fly over heads; creep under. Come, oh, come!
Escape. We'll find no poetry at home."