I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

THE CHRISTIAN'S EARTHLY ENJOYMENTS.

From "THE COURSE OF TIME."

BY ROBERT POLLOK.-1799-1827.

[FEW poems have attained a greater celebrity or had a larger circulation immediately upon publication than this. Its popularity possibly has not been maintained in the present generation, but some twenty-five editions testify to the character of its first reception. The poem gives in a narrative form the impression made on a visitor from another planet of a sketch of the life, aims, and destination of the human race. Its sentiments are strongly Calvinistic, and otherwise in accord with the doctrine of the United Secession Church of Scotland, in which its author was a minister. It is divided into ten books; and it is contended by its admirers that many parts of it are equal to Milton. It is unquestionable that it displays great poetic power, and justifies much of the praise bestowed upon it. Pollock was a native of Muirhouse, Renfrewshire, and was educated at Glasgow. His close application to study fomented a tendency to consumption; and his twenty-eighth year witnessed the publication and success of his poem, the commencement of his ministry, and his death. The latter took place at Shirley, near Southampton, whither he had gone in the hope of improving his health, on the 17th of September, 1827.]

LOVES, friendships, hopes, and dear remembrances—
The kind embracings of the heart-and hours
Of happy thought-and smiles coming to tears-
And glories of the heaven and starry cope

Above, and glories of the earth beneath

These were the rays that wandered through the gloom Of mortal life,--wells of the wilderness;

Redeeming features in the face of Time;

Sweet drops, that made the mixed cup of Earth
A palatable draught-too bitter else.

About the joy and pleasures of the world,
This question was not seldom in debate-
Whether the righteous man, or sinner, had
The greatest share, and relished them the most?
Truth gives the answer thus, gives it distinct,

Nor needs to reason long: The righteous man.
For what was he denied of earthly growth,
Worthy the name of good? Truth answers-Nought.
Had he not appetite, and sense, and will?
Might he not eat, if Providence allowed,

The finest of the wheat? Might he not drink
The choicest wine? True, he was temperate;
But then was temperance a foe to peace?
Might he not rise, and clothe himself in gold?
Ascend, and stand in palaces of kings?
True, he was honest still, and charitable:
Were then these virtues foes to human peace?
Might he not do exploits, and gain a name?
Most true, he trod not down a fellow's right,
Nor walked up to a throne on skulls of men ;
Were justice, then, and mercy, foes to peace?
Had he not friendships, loves, and smiles, and hopes?
Sat not around his table sons and daughters?
Was not his ear with music pleased? his eye
With light? his nostrils with perfumes? his lips
With pleasant relishes? grew not his herds?
Fell not the rains upon his meadows? reaped
He not his harvests? and did not his heart
Revel at will thro' all the charities

And sympathies of nature unconfined ?

And were not all these sweetened, and sanctified
By dews of holiness shed from above?
Might he not walk thro' Fancy's airy halls?
Might he not History's ample page survey?
Might he not, finally, explore the depths
Of mental, moral, natural, divine?
But why enumerate thus? One word enough.
There was no joy in all created things;
No drop of sweet, that turned not in the end
To sour, of which the righteous man did not
Partake partake, invited by the voice

Of God, his Father's voice-who gave him all
His heart's desire. And o'er the sinner still,
The Christian had this one advantage more,
That where his earthly pleasures failed, and fail

They always did to every soul of man,

He sent his hopes on high, looked up, and reached
His sickle forth, and reaped the fields of heaven,
And plucked the clusters from the vines of God.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.-1785-1842.

[EMINENT as an editor and critic, singularly popular for a few songs and ballads, and successful as novelist and dramatist, his name is yet most lastingly associated with "Biographies of British Painters and Sculptors." Mr. Cunningham was born at Dumfriesshire, of humble parents, and at ten years of age was apprenticed to a stone-mason. After coming to London, he obtained employment with Chantry, the great sculptor, to whom he soon became principal assistant, and improving thereby his means of acquaintance with literature, he acquired the friendship of literary men, amongst whom he at once ranked as a leading character.]

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 bends 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 snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.