EAR as thou wert, and justly dear,
We will not weep for thee;

One thought shall check the starting tear,

It is that thou art free.

And thus shall Faith's consoling power

The tears of love restrain;

Oh! who that saw thy parting hour,
Could wish thee here again?

Triumphant in thy closing eye
The hope of glory shone,
Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh,
To think the fight was won.
Gently the passing spirit fled,

Sustained by grace divine:

Oh! may such grace on me be shed,

And make my end like thine!

REV. T. DALE. [From "The Widow of Nain."]

The Winter Walk at Noon.

HE night was winter in his roughest mood,
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale,

And through the trees I view the embattled tower
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread
The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.

The redbreast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes, and more than half suppressed.
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence.

COWPER.

B

The Mariner's life.

UT are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a',

There's nae luck about the house,

When our gudeman's awa.

S

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;

His breath 's like caller air;

His very fit has music in't,

As he comes up the stair.

[WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE is chiefly known by his elegant and scholarly translation of the "Lusiade" of Camoens. He also wrote several ballads of more than average merit. The foregoing may be taken as a favourable specimen.]