Here's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie.

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Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at

even,

When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through

heaven;

I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn

leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often think of thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-in my sad and lonely hours,

The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers ;

Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless

mine eye,

Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the

sky;

Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the

tree,

Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though my muse must soon be dumb,

(For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, are come,)

Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high,

And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober

eye;

Though the merry wine must seldom Aow, the revel cease

for me,

Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! stil I'll drink a health to thee.

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health

to thee;

May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me!

May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,

Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!

And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be,-Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!

WE

Weep not for her.

By D. M. MOIR, (DELTA.)

EEP not for her! Her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and
bright,

Like flowers that know not what it is to die,

Like long-link'd shadeless months of polar light,

Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,

While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her!

She died in early youth,

Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,

And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews.
Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for Her.

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,

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She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven: Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not hers to feel

The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,

As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,

And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes,
Victorious over death to her appears,
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine

Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,

Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk

Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back,

U

So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown,

She'll meet thee at heaven's gate- and lead thee on: Weep not for her!

Better Moments.

MY

BY N. P. WILLIS.

Y mother's voice! how oft doth creep
Its cadence on my lonely hours?
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air

Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood flec,
And leave me at my mother's knee.

The book of nature, and the print
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give aye to me some lineament

Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few miserable years;
But nature's book is even yet

With all my mother's lessons writ.

Better Moments.

I have been out at eventide

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing;—
When bursting leaves and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that makes the pulses pass

With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night ;—
When all was beauty-then have I,

With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on wings of Araby,

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung.
And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain ;
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,

I've pour'd her low and fervent prayer,
That our eternity might be,

To rise in heaven like stars at night,
And tread a living path of light!

I have been on the dewy hills

When night was stealing from the dawn, And mist was on the waking rills,

And tints were delicately drawn

In the gray east-when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees,
A melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze,
And this when I was forth, perchance
As a worn reveller from the dance-

And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river

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