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Tell Zion's mournful daughter

O'er kindred bones she'll tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter

Shall hide but half her dead.

But soon shall other pictured scenes

In brighter vision rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine

On all her mourner's eyes ;
And on her mountains beauteous stand

The messengers of peace ;-
“ Salvation by the Lord's right hand !”
They shout and never cease.

MOORE.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
Tuy fruit full well the school-boy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake !
Go put thou forth thy small white rose :

I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O’er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded Aowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull

That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are !
How delicate thy gaudy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem !
How soft thy voice when woods are still,

And thou sing’st hymns to them!

While silent flowers are falling slow,

And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush !
The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone

Hath laid her weary head !
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossoming hour,
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with theo the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

ELLIOT.

STEAM IN THE DESERT.

“God made all nations of one blood,” And bado the nation-wedding flood

Bear good for good to men : Lo, interchange is happiness ! The mindless are the riverless!

The shipless have no pen!

What deod sublime by them is wrought?
What type have they of speech or thought?

What soul-ennobled page ?
No record tells their tale of pain !
Th’ unwritten History of Cain

Is theirs from age to age !

Steam !—if the nations grow not old
That see broad ocean's “ back of gold,”

Or hear him in the wind-
Why dost not thou thy banner shake
O'er sealess, streamless lands, and make

One nation of mankind ?

If rivers are but seeking rest,
E’en when they climb from ocean's breast

To plant on earth the rose-
If good for good is doubly blest,
O! bid the severed east and west

In action find repose !

Yes, let the wilderness rejoice,
The voiceless campaign hear the voice

Of millions long estranged:
That waste, and want, and war may cease!
And all men know that Love and Peace
Are-good for good exchanged !

ELLIOT

THE MARINER'S SONG.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;
And hends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies and leaves

Old England on the lee.

“O for a soft and gentle wind,"

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snorting breeze,

And white waves heaving high ;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And, hark, the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free,
While the hollow pak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

CUNNINGHAM.

LOWLINESS OF MIND.

0! I would walk A weary journey, to the farthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity! What is the pomp of learning? the parade Of letters and of tongues? even as the mists Of the gray mom before the rising sun, That pass away and perish. Earthly things

Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.

KIRK WHITE.

MY MOTHER.

And canst thou, mother, for a moment think,

That we, thy children, when old age shall shed

Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink

Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,

To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought !—Where'er our steps may roam,

O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;

While duty bids us all thy grief assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

KIRK WHITE.

INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GLORY.

O how weak
Is mortal man ! how trifling—how confined
His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence,
His phrase grows big with immortality,
And he, poor insect of a summer's day!
Dreams oí eternal honours to his name;

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