Silv'ry river, silv'ry river!

Swift as thee did boyhood glide;
Careless then thy woods I roam'd, with
Tray so trusty by my side.

Stream of beauty, stream of beauty!
Ripple o'er thy pebbly bed!
Like thy ringing was my laugh, as
Fleetly o'er thy sands I fled.

Bounding river, bounding river!
Oft with net or baited steel
Thy golden perch or silv'ry shad
Boyish art I've made to feel.

My native stream, my native stream!
Light my skiff has cleft thy tide,
Starting black-duck from thy breast, or
Reed-bird from thy sedgy side.

Gentle river, gentle river!

O'er thy sands of silver flow!

Calm and placid as thy bosom

Was my spirits' happy flow!

Stream of childhood, stream of childhood!
Oft my heart has turned to thee,
When, wand'ring on some distant strand,
Would waken gentle mem'ry.

ZEPHYR'S FAREWELL TO THE ROSE

BY ROBERT HOWE GOULD.

OH! pity poor zephyr,

Who wanders so lonely;-
Whose sighs, now and ever,
Are breathed for thee only.

He is driven o'er hill,

And he wanders through vale;

But his breath lingers still

On the wings of the gale.

He may wander o'er sea,
But his harp has no tone;-

Its notes were for THEE,

Now their spirit has flown!

Should the wild gale of life
Curb its ruthless career,
And the tempest's loud strife
Die away from his ear,

He'll wing his flight lightly,
Mid the blue of the skies,

Where the light beams more

brightly

Mid thy love-blushing dyes:

Then wake his sweet numbers,
And pour his soft lays,

Where nought his harp cumbers
Save its burthen of praise.

THERE IS A WEE AND PRETTY MAID.

BY ALBERT PIKE.

THERE is a wee and pretty maid,
As sweet and winsome as a fairy,
I wadna ask wi' wealth to wed,
If I could wed wi' thee, Mary.

I've wandered east-I've wandered west-
As wanton as the winds that vary;

But ne'er was I sae truly blest

As when I met wi' thee, Mary,

Like a wee purple violet,

That hangs its blushing head a-weary, When wi' the dew its leaves are wet, Sae modest sweet art thou, Mary.

Thy brow is white, as is the mist

That sleeps on Heaven's forehead starry

Or mountain snow by sunrise kissed,-
Thy heart is whiter still, Mary.

Thine e'en are like an eagle's e'en
That sitteth proudly in his aerie-
They glitter with a starry sheen,-
Yet modest as thy heart, Mary.

Upon thy rosy cheek, the soul
Seems in the gushing tide to vary;
An' crimson currents in it roll,
As tho' it wad break thro', Mary.

If I could press thee in my arms,
As my wee wife and bonny fairy;
I wadna tak for thy sweet charms

The warld an' a' its wealth, Mary.

How sweetly wad the hours gae by,
That now sae solemn are and dreary
If thou upon my breast didst lie,
My ain, my lovely, dear Mary!

THE SONG OF THE HEART.

BY ROBERT BURTS.

COME, fill up the cup, fill it up to the brim,
'Tis the waters of Lethe we kiss;

For never, oh! never was grief known to swim
In a goblet so sparkling as this.

Then fill up the cup, fill it up, let us drown

All thoughts of our life that give pain,

And if fickle fortune should still choose to frown,
Why we'll fill up the goblet again.

Oh, why for the things that are gone do we weep,
And embitter the joys of to-day,

When one sip of the wine-cup, would certainly sweep
All past recollections away?

The troubles, the cares that have once dimmed the brow,
Will never o'ershade it again;

Then why blast the pleasures life yet may allow,
By reflections that need not remain?

Oh wildly the pulse beats with raptures of bliss
When wine warms the blood in the vein,

And who has not felt that one moment like this,

Repays a whole lifetime of pain.

When the tears of the wine sparkle bright in the eye,

No sorrow it brings to the soul;

But if we must weep, oh! then tell me why

Not with pleasure we find in the bowl?