She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings, But a cry, as of pain, arose in Eden- A rose, red as the nut-tree bloom in spring-days. Upon the mirror-surface of the mind The Beautiful imprints itself, in shades And colors of its own, and thenceforth lives, Through passing days and all the weighted years, A precious picture of the memory. O eyes! where dwelt the witchery of power, O hair of night! not flowing light and free SILENCE. THE ROBERT GILFILLAN. HE sweet and plaintive lyric which preserves the name of Gilfillan takes its place among our standard songs as one of the best, if not the best of its kind. Its author was born in Dunfermline, in 1798, in very humble circumstances. After learning the trade of a cooper in Leith, he became a clerk in a wine-merchant's office, and in 1837, was appointed collector of poor-rates for the burgh of Leith. He held this appointment till his death, which took place in 1850. Two editions of his poems have been published; but though some others of them are well written, none comes up to the standard of "Why Left I My Hame." J. R. THE EXILE'S SONG. Oн, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? And I gaze across the sea, The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie! Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every woe, IN THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE. IN the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, An' nae foreign fashions among us had sprung; When we made our ain bannocks an' brewed our ain yill, An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; Oh, the thochet o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill! In the days o' langsyne we were happy an' free, An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted an' sang shine; Oh, where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne? In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale, Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale; An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain, As it trotted alang through the valley or plain — Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again? In the days o' langsyne there were feasting an' glee, It was your stoup the nicht, an' the morn it was mine; Oh, the days o' langsyne! — Oh, the days o' langsyne! FAREWELL. Though dark and dreary lowers the night, YOUTH. I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. -The Happy Days o' Youth. |