ROBERT TANNAHILL.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE | How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft

BAYARD TAYLOR.

ON THE HEADLAND.

I SIT on the lonely headland,

But yesterday, and thee the earth Inscribed not on her mighty scroll:

Where the sea-gulls come and go: To-day she opes the gate of birth,

The sky is gray above me,

And the sea is gray below.

There is no fisherman's pinnace
Homeward or outward bound;
I see no living creature

In the world's deserted round.

I pine for something human,

Man, woman, young or old,-
Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.

I have a mouth for kisses,
But there's no one to give and
take;

I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody's sake.

O warmth of love that is wasted!
Is there none to stretch a hand?
No other heart that hungers
In all the living land?

I could fondle the fisherman's baby,
And rock it into rest;

I could take the sunburnt sailor,
Like a brother, to my breast,
I could clasp the hand of any
Outcast of land or sea,
If the guilty palm but answered
The tenderness in me!

The sea might rise and drown me;
Cliffs fall and crush my head,-
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!

THE FATHER.

THE fateful hour, when death stood by

And stretched his threatening hand in vain,

Is over now, and life's first cry Speaks feeble triumph through its pain.

And gives the spheres another

'soul:

But yesterday, no fruit from me
The rising winds of time had
hurled

To-day, a father, can it be

A child of mine is in the world?

I look upon the little frame,
As helpless on my arm it lies:
Thou giv'st me, child, a father's

name,

God's earliest name in Paradise.

Like Him, creator too I stand:

His power and mystery seem more

near;

Thou giv'st me honor in the land,

And giv'st my life duration here.

But love, to-day, is more than pride; Love sees his star of triumph shine,

For life nor death can now divide The souls that wedded breathe in thine:

Mine and thy mother's, whence arose
The copy of my face in thee;
And as thine eyelids first unclose,
My own young eyes look up to

me.

Look on me, child, once more, once more,

Even with those weak, unconscious eyes;

Stretch the small hands that help implore;

Salute me with thy wailing cries!

This is the blessing and the prayer

A father's sacred place demands: Ordain me, darling, for thy care, And lead me with thy helpless hands!