YE banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry; For there I took my last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the

clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary.

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling
glance,

That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland May.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?

Began the reverend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man.

The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force give nature's law
That man was made to mourn.

LOVE.

LOVE is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high

For perishing mortality;
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but Love
All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine;
For when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from the impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still, the older,
And proves the pleasanter, the colder

WORK AND WORSHIP. "Laborare est orare."-ST. AUGUSTINE.

CHARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch,

As through Metten Wood he strayed,

Found the holy hermit, Hutto,
Toiling in the forest glade.

In his hand the woodman's hatchet,
By his side the knife and twine,
There he cut and bound the faggots
From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit
For his pious works and cares,
And the wonders which had followed
From his vigils, fasts,
and prayers.
Much he marvelled now to see him
Toiling thus, with axe and cord;
And he cried in scorn, "O Father,
Is it thus you serve the Lord ?"

But the hermit resting neither

Hand nor hatchet, meekly said: "He who does no daily labor

May not ask for daily bread.

"Think not that my graces slumber While I toil throughout the day; For all honest work is worship,

And to labor is to pray.

"Think not that the heavenly blessing

From the workman's hand removes; Who does best his task appointed, Him the Master most approves.

While he spoke the hermit, pausing For a moment, raised his eyes Where the overhanging branches Swayed beneath the sunset skies.

Through the dense and vaulted for

est

Straight the level sunbeam came, Shining like a gilded rafter,

Poised upon a sculptured frame.

Suddenly, with kindling features, While he breathes a silent prayer, See, the hermit throws his hatchet, Lightly, upward in the air.

Bright the well-worn steel is gleam ing,

As it flashes through the shade, And descending, lo! the sunbeam Holds it dangling by the blade!

"See, my son," exclaimed the her mit, "See the token heaven has sent; Thus to humble, patient effort Faith's miraculous aid is lent.