And wilt thou, when upon the bed
Of sickness I shall lie,

Wilt thou support my aching head,
And teach me how to die?

My first-born child! my Julia dear!
Close to my heart I press thee
May HE whom all must love and fear,
May HE for ever bless thee!

TO THE LADY

THAT look again! 'tis like the milder ray

Of eve in climes far lovelier than our own, That wooes the lonely wanderer to stray

Through scenes which ne'er night's deeper shades imbrown.

So mild, all other thoughts are hush'd away,
Save those that rise from rapture's gaze alone;
Thine is that quiet radiance, that beguiles

All sense of pain, that dazzles not, but smiles.

BELIEVE ME, SHE IS TRUE INDEED.

BELIEVE me, she is true indeed,

Whatever you surmise;

Impartial be, and you may read
Her faith in her bright eyes.

Beaming with candour, every look
Gives evidence of Love;

Oh do not then of Nature's book
The language disapprove!

Her smiles most eloquently speak
The self-approving glow
Of conscience, roses on her cheek

The health of virtue show.

Hypocrisy could never give
To woman such a grace

As seems, a sign from Heaven, to live
In her angelic face.

Believe me she is true indeed,
Whatever you surmise;

Impartial be, and you may read

Her faith in her bright eyes.

ON HAWTHORNDEN.

WHO can describe thy charms, sweet Hawthornden, Fit residence of poetry and love!

What fair variety is here! the glen,

Rocks clothed with oak and beech that rise above The Esk's impetuous stream below, the ken

Of thy romantic mansion, as we rove

Thy winding walks among! ah, where's the pen
Of thine own bard, to paint wood, rock, and cove?

NOTE.

Hawthornden, once the abode of the Poet Drummond, is placed on a high rock or precipice, overlooking the river Esk, that runs rapidly below the rocky sides of the glen, as you approach this delightful retreat, are covered with oak and birch that spring up from every crevice. * There are several caves in the rocks, in one of which, it is said that the patriot Wallace was concealed for two days.

"How fresh an' fair o' varied hue,

Ilk tufted haunt o' sweet Buccleugh!
What bliss ilk green retreat to hail,
Where Melville Castle cheers the vale ;

An' Mavisbank sae rural gay,

Looks bonnie down the woodland brae;

But doubly fair ilk darling scene,

That screens the bowers of Hawthorn-dean."-GALL.