See it shaketh too and fro,
Ever as the breezes blow;
Yonder leaf, on yonder tree,
Speaks of blossoms faded now-

Of spring-tide bloom, and summer morn,
Shall youth and beauty ere return?

Dost thou say the woods are green,
Still the western breeze is bland?
Child, 'tis but deception all,
Winter hovers on the strand,

And soon the boding autumn gale
Shall strip the woods and sweep the vale.

"Twas thus we mused upon a leaf Entranced with pleasing spell;

"Twas thus we mused, and as we mused, The withering leaflet fell:

Awhile it fluttered in the gale

So sinks frail man in death's dark vale.

REMORSE.

"Was the dark deed foully done?" 'Neath the shades where streamlets run, In the brake where sunbeams play All the pleasant summer day, "Twas there the wand'rer fell: Shadows dark no tale ere tell.

"Hast thou never sought that spot
In the wood beside the moat,
Where, when terror filled my soul,
At midnight thou built the mole-
Yonder rude mishappen heap,

O'er which the trembling willows weep?"

"Hast thou never heard the sigh Of the streamlet sobbing by? Have thy nights no ghastly dream

Through which wandering sunbeams gleam?" "In the day and in the night

I wrestle with a thing of might;
Whose voice is like a streamlet sighing,
And wild shriek on the breezes dying!"

FAITH AND PATIENCE IN ADVERSITY.

The wave breaks on the rocky shore,
Still fretting round it evermore;

The wave rolls backward from the strand,
Aye guided by an unseen hand.

To palace and to cottage door
Sore trials came for evermore;
But vain their oft repeated stroke,

When faith withstandeth every shock,
Till, firmer than the rocky steep
On which the billows dash and leap,
The Soul repels the fellest rage,
And youth survives in hoary age.

ECHO.

Wicked Echo in the vale
Cease to tell a love-sick tale,
Which the maid already knows,
In whose breast love's current flows.
Thou false Echo! Evil Echo!
Up among the leafy brakes
Early morn the cushat wakes.
Hark! its cooing in the dell.
All its joys thou mightest tell;
But cease to vex a maiden's breast.
Why should she for ever list
A voice so false-a tale untrue,
Which her gentle breast will rue;
Treacherous Echo! Wicked Echo!

A

JOHN YOUNG,

UTHOR of "Selina, and other Poems," published in 1878, was born at Pitfour, in the parish of St Madoes, in 1826. He received his early education at the Parish School, and afterwards at the Perth Academy. Mr Young was trained as a civil engineer and architect, and is now practising as such in Perth. He is an occasional contributor to the newspaper press, and is known as a gentleman of refined taste and professional skill-fond of scientific, fine art, and literary pursuits. The latter he considers more as a pastime, but he frequently puts his scientific knowledge to practical use. He has a well-established reputation amongst civil engineers, and the lovers of the fine arts.

In 1877 Mr Young published a handsome volume of "Poems" in aid of funds for the erection of a museum for the natural history of Perthshire. "Selina " is a narrative poem of seventy-seven stanzas, and is exceedingly well sustained, and evinces not a little descriptive power and much poetic feeling. The smaller poems and songs are natural and spirited unmistakably the emanations of a pure and thoughtful mind.

POETS.

Poets, inspired with raptured strains
To touch our finest feeling;
Life chartered vessels heaven fraught,
And sparks of heaven revealing

To light our way amid the storms
Of life that thickly rage;

To fire our zeal in youth, and cheer
Our hearts with ripening age.

To aid to weave the golden web,
Of fellow-trust around us;

That faith, and hope, and love may rule,
And spite no more confound us.

To urge the common fatherhood
And brotherhood of man;

And scourge the righteous few who would
A brother's weakness scan.

To crush the weeds and nurse the flowers,
That these may brighter bloom
And make the atmosphere of life
Scent sweet with their perfume.

Yes! poets cheer and lift us up
Above all earthly wrongs;
Think for a moment what would be
The world without its songs.

Insipid, heartless, cold, and dull,
Nothing to rouse our fire;

No burning strains whereby to vent
The thoughts our breasts inspire.

Weaker would be the soldier's arm,
Rougher the sailor's seas;

The state, the church, the mill would lag,
The lover's love would freeze.

Yet luckless is the poet's fate,
He might as well be mute

For all he gains-he sows the seed
But others win the fruit.

Oh! pity 'tis that in this life
The poet rarely reaps

The honours due, that freely flow
When in the grave he sleeps.

Lost 'mid the envious moil of life,
Till death hath sealed his fate,
Then comes the meed of merit full,
But comes, for him, too late.

Too late to soothe his burning brain,
Too late his hopes to cheer,
Too late to save from cold disdain
That crushed his life while here.

"ALL GLITTER IS NOT GOLD."

The trusty friend of many years,
No wealth but heart to show:

Though one with flash of wealth appears,

Do not his love forego.

The gaudy tinsel often cloaks

A soul to feeling dead;

That lives on plaudits wealth evokes,
With little heart or head.

Let not new friends untried displace
The worthy and the old,

Although they come with polished grace;
All glitter is not gold.

When light the load, and smooth the way,
Your waggon jogs along;

Though seeming frank, 'tis vain display
To offer cattle strong.

When axle-deep you move no foot,
An old friend, true as steel-
While others stand aside-will put
His shoulder to the wheel.

Let not new friends, etc.

When fortune blows a prosperous wind,
Who aids to trim the sail,
What good if he should leave a friend,
To face an adverse gale;
But he, who does the best he can,
Through friendship's love untold,
Denies himself for fellow man,
Is worth his weight in gold.
Let not new friends, etc.

SING ON, MY BONNIE BAIRN.

Sing on, my bonnie bairn-sing :
Thy wee, sweet, silver voice
To me sounds like the sough o' lands
Whare angel-sangs rejoice.

Thy bonnie broo, fair as the morn,
Is scarce four summers auld;
Thy dawning life, like opening bud,
O' pure and spotless fauld.

Nae envy stirs thy artless heart,
Vain-glory, or conceit;

Nae venomed passions rouse thy breast,
Nae malice or deceit.

Thy soul a' heaven-thy ways a' earth-
Scarce either, but between :

Content to play and sing thy sang

Frae morn to dewy e'en.

Thy trusting faith-thy clinging love

Thy large enquiring eyes

Thy puzzling queries, hard to tell

Thy wonder and surprise!