The mavis wild, wi' many a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice,

Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets among;
But I, the queen of a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strong.

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;
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,

And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie, in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,*

My sister and my foe! Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword

That through thy soul shall go; The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son !* my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's foes,

Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,

Remember him for me!

O, soon, to me, may summer suns

Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house of death

Let winter round me rave;
And the next flowers that deck the spring

Bloom on my peaceful grave.

AVARICE. — George Herbert.

Money, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Whence comest thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?
I know thy parentage is base and low;
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.

Surely thou didst so little contribute
To this great kingdom which thou now hast got,
That he was fain, when thou wast destitute,
To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.

Then forcing- thee by fire he made thee bright;
Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we
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;

Light up the beacon-pyre ! —
A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire.
A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast,—
And hark! — was that the sound of seas ? -

A king to war went past.

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,

Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound

The falchion to his side;
E'en for the marriage-altar crowned,

The lover quits his bride.

168 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread ! —

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead!

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 breaking, 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 waning,

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, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,

And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers; — Farewell, then, enchantress ! I meet thee no more!

TRUE RICHES.— Watts.

I Am not concerned to know
What, to-morrow, fate will do;
'T is enough that I can say
I 've possessed myself to-day;
Then, if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.

Glittering stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honors that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own;
Riches that the world bestows
She can take, and I can lose;
But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'ma kingdom of my own.

I 've a mighty part within,
That the world hath never seen;
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crowned.
Here, on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows;