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That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save;
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e:
"I'll shine on you yet in your ain countrie!"
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR. Gone were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,
And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father,

Or my mother so dear,

I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year.

William Tennant.

Tennant (1784-1848) was a native of Anstruther, Scotland, who, while filling the situation of clerk in a mercantile house, studied ancient and modern literature, and taught himself Hebrew. He is known in literature by his mock-heroic poem of "Anster Fair" (1812), written in the ottava-rima stanza, afterward adopted by Frere and Byron. The subject was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, the famous heroine of Scottish song. The poem was praised by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review; and several editions of it were published. After struggling with poverty till 1834, Tennant received the appointment of Professor of Oriental Languages in St. Mary's College. In 1845 he published "Hebrew Dramas, founded on Incidents in Bible History." A memoir of his life and writings appeared in 1861.

DESCRIPTION OF MAGGIE LAUDER. Her form was as the Morning's blithesome star, That, capped with lustrous coronet of beams, Rides up the dawning orient in her car,

New-washed, and doubly fulgent from the streams:

The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar,
And on his knees adores her as she gleams;
So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder,
And so the admiring crowds pay homage and ap-
plaud her.

Each little step her trampling palfrey took,
Shaked her majestic person into grace,
And as at times his glossy sides she strook
Endearingly with whip's green silken lace,
The prancer seemed to court such kind rebuke,
Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace-

By Jove, the very waving of her arm
Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm!

Her face was as the summer cloud, whereon

The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise: For why? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze; And he that gazed with cold, unsmitten soul, That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked beneath the Pole.

Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold,
Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling,
And on each hair, so harmless to behold,
A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling;
The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold

The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling,
And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares,
And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs.

Her eye was as an honored palace, where

A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Got dignity and honor from the glance; Woe to the man on whom she unaware

Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! "Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard— May Heaven from such a look preserve each tender bard!

So on she rode in virgin majesty,

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, And with the light and grandeur of her eye

Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse; While round her presence clustering far and nigh, On horseback some, with silver spurs and whips, And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles, Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with horny knuckles.

Alexander Rodger.

Rodger (1784-1846) was a native of East-Calder, Scotland. In 1797 he was apprenticed to a weaver in Glasgow. He married, and had a large family, some of whom emigrated to the United States. Having written some articles against the Government in a radical newspaper, he was imprisoned for some time. His first appearance as an author was in 1827, when he published a volume of poems. Some of his songs are still very popular.

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And dinna be so rude to me As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me mickle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,

But, guidsake! no before folk!
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
Whate'er you do when out o' view,
Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they'll mak'

O' naething but a simple smack

That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young
Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss

To be sae teased before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
When we're our lane you may tak' ane,
But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet it doesna do to see

Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
I'll ne'er submit again to it-
So mind you that-before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair:
It may be sae-I dinna care;
But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair
As ye ha'e done before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet:
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet

To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;

Gin that's the case, there's time and place,
But surely no before folk.

But gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kissed,
Gae, get a license frae the priest,
And mak' me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;

And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak' ten-before folk.

Bernard Barton.

Barton (1784-1849) has often been spoken of as "the Quaker poet." He became a banker's clerk at the age of twenty-six, and continued in that position, like Lamb in the East India House, to the end of his life. Pure, gentle, and amiable, his poetry reflects his character. To the "Sonnet to a Grandmother," Charles Lamb affixed the characteristic comment, "A good sonnet. Diri.-C. LAMB." Barton's "Poems and Letters" were published, with a memoir, by his daughter, in 1853.

TO A GRANDMOTHER.

"Old age is dark and unlovely."-OSSIAN.

Oh, say not so! A bright old age is thine,
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine
At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all he sends with gratitude receives.
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!
And hence thy fireside chair appears to me

A peaceful throne-which thou wert formed to fill;

Thy children ministers who do thy will;
And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee,
Thy little subjects, looking up to thee

As one who claims their fond allegiance still.

FAREWELL.

Nay, shrink not from the word "farewell," As if 'twere friendship's final knell!

Such fears may prove but vain: So changeful is life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever, Hope may say, "We part-to meet again!"

E'en the last parting heart can know Brings not unutterable woe

To souls that heavenward soar; For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts that here at parting sigh May meet-to part no more.

A WINTER NIGHT.

A winter night! the stormy wind is high,
Rocking the leafless branches to and fro:
The sailor's wife shrinks as she hears it blow,
And mournfully surveys the starless sky;
The hardy shepherd turns out fearlessly
To tend his fleecy charge in drifted snow;
And the poor homeless, houseless child of woe
Sinks down, perchance, in dumb despair to die!
Happy the fireside student-happier still
The social circle round the blazing hearth,—
If, while these estimate aright the worth
Of every blessing which their cup may fill,
Their grateful hearts with sympathy can thrill
For every form of wretchedness on earth.

Levi Frisbie.

AMERICAN.

Frisbie (1784-1822) was the son of a clergyman of Ipswich, Mass. He was educated at Harvard, and did much to defray his own expenses by teaching. After finishing his course, he was successively Latin tutor, Professor of Latin, and Professor of Moral Philosophy. A volume containing some of his philosophical writings and a few poems, and edited by his friend, Andrews Norton, was published in 1823.

A CASTLE IN THE AIR.

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife, Whene'er I scan this scene of life,

Inspires my waking schemes, And when I sleep, with form so light, Dances before my ravished sight,

In sweet aërial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes.

Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem―
And kind affections round them beam,
But most of all on me!

A form, though not of finest mould, Where yet a something you behold Unconsciously doth please; Manners all graceful, without art, That to each look and word impart A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;

With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye, must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,

And were her fate to mine but joined
By Hymen's silken tie,

To her myself, my all, I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,

For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious care oppressed,
On the soft pillow of her breast

My aching head I'd lay;

At her sweet smile each care should cease, Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,

And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care,

Each thought, each wish, each feeling, share;

Should sickness e'er invade,

My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurled,

My bosom to its bolts I'd bare,
In her defence undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend; Together would we humbly bend

To praise the Almighty name; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upward to her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.

Thus nothing should our hearts divide, But on our years serenely glide,

And all to love be given;

And, when life's little scene was o'er, We'd part to meet and part no more, But live and love in heaven.

Leigh Hunt.

The son of a West Indian who settled in England and became a clergyman, James Henry Leigh Hunt (17841859) was born at Southgate, and educated at Christ's Hospital, London. In connection with his brother he established the Examiner newspaper in 1808, and became the literary associate of Coleridge, Lamb, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Shelley, and other men of note. Having called the Prince Regent "an Adonis of fifty," he and his brother were condemned to two years' imprisonment, with a fine of £500 each. On Hunt's release, Keats addressed to him one of his finest sonnets. Improvident and somewhat lax in money matters, and often in want of "a loan," Hunt's life was spent in struggling with influences contrary to his nature and temperament. In 1822 he went to Italy to reside with Lord Byron; and in 1828 he published "Lord Byron, and some of his Contemporaries," for which he was bitterly satirized by Moore, in some biting verses, as an ingrate. Certain affectations in his style caused Hunt to be credited with founding the "Cockney School of Poetry."

TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down and think

Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise.

The sidelong pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid, Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'mid my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,—
The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too;
My light where'er I go,

My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say "He has departed"-
"His voice-his face-is gone!"
To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping;
This silence too, the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seems whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Seraphim,

Who say, "We've finished here!"

1 John Wilson, once the lusty assailant of Hunt, called him at last "the most vivid of poets and most cordial of critics."

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold :Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spake more low, But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-meu."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

AN ITALIAN MORNING IN MAY.

FROM "THE STORY OF RIMINI."

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay; A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen, Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, And there's a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil; And all the scene, in short,-sky, earth, and sea,Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing :The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the

bay.

THOUGHTS ON THE AVON, SEPT. 28, 1817. It is the loveliest day that we have had This lovely month-sparkling, and full of cheer; The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad ; Colors are doubly bright: all things appear Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere; And through the lofty air the white clouds go, As on their way to some celestial show.

The banks of Avon must look well to-day:
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright, the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes,
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest
In leafy fields, rural, and self-possessed,
Having on one side Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?

It is not that I envy autumn there,

Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one,
Shakspeare; nor yet-oh no-that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.

No; but it is that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream-a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away,
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore-
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art; a nature that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the Golden Age one tune they bore-
Marian, who makes my heart and very rhymes
run o'er.

MAY AND THE POETS. There is May in books forever: May will part from Spenser never; May's in Milton, May's in Pryor, May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;

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