THE SCOTTISH EXILE'S FAREWELL. OUR native Land-our native Vale- Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, The battle-mound, the Border-tower, The martyr's grave, the lover's bower- Home of our hearts! our fathers' home! We seek a wild and distant shore, But may dishonour blight our fame, Our native Land-our native Vale- Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue! T. PRINGLE. THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills May glance in tameless transport by :— A step as fleet, an eye more bright, Inhabitants more fair. The cedars wave on Lebanon, But Judah's statelier maids are gone! More blest each palm that shades those plains Than Israel's scatter'd race; For, taking root, it there remains In solitary grace: It cannot quit its place of birth, It will not live in other earth. But we must wander witheringly, And where our fathers' ashes be, Our temple hath not left a stone, And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. LORD BYRON. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass, I hear thee babbling to the vale And unto me thou bring'st a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! No bird; but an invisible thing, The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee! W. WORDSWORTH. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught, Whose passions not his masters are; Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from humours freed; Who God doth late and early pray This man is freed from servile bands SIR H. WOTTON. CORONACH. HE is gone on the mountain, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, How sound is thy slumber! SIR W. SCOTT. THE SEA. THE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love (oh! how I love) to ride I never was on the dull tame shore, |