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Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
Away, away, in the wilderness vast
Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,-
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink;
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread, -void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone,
A still small voice comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying,-Man is distant, but God is near!

THOMAS PRINGLE. 11

The Beacon.

The scene was more beautiful far to the eye,

Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky

Looked pure as the spirit that made it: The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed

On the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim distant hill, till the light-house fire blazed

Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast

Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers:
One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope,

All hushed was the billows' commotion,
And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope, -

That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,

Yet when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blazed on the breast of the billow:
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,

And death stills the heart's last emotion;
O, then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean!

PAUL MOON JAME!

Mortality.

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
Like a fast-fitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He
passes
from life to his rest in the

grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shal moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worr,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
Tc repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts, we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too woulà

shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come ;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ay! they diedand we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, -
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

WILLIAM Knox.

The tuhistler.

“You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who

stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline, — “You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood:

I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine.”

• And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,

While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.

“I would blow it,” he answered, “and then my fair maid

Would fly to my side and would there take her place."

“Is that all you wish for? Why, that may

be yours Without any magic!” the fair maiden cried: A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;

And she playfully seated herself by his side.

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“I would blow it again,” said the youth; "and the charm

Would work so that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm.”

She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.

“Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine

Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine

And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss.”

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,

“What a fool of yourself with the whistle you 'd make! For only consider how silly 't would be To sit there and whistle for what you might take.”

ROBERT STORY.

cute 'll Go to Sea no More.

O, BLITHELY shines the bonny sun

Upon the Isle of May,
And blithely comes the morning tide

Into St. Andrew's Bay.
Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair,

And up, my braw bairns three;
There 's goud in yonder bonny boat
That sails sae weel the sea!
When haddocks leave the Firth o’ Forth,

An' mussels leave the shore,

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