THE WAIL OF THE DISCONSOLATE.

Oh! loved and lamented, and though from this sphere
For ever departed, in memory still dear!

Yes, mind must relinguish her power to review
The past, when I think not, dear angels, of you.

So formed for to reap the enjoyments of life,
So furnished with parts to prevail in its strife,
And just in the dawning of manhood's glad day,
How saddening to think ye were summoned away.
That natures so earnest, so generous have been
The dupes of the false, and the prey of the mean,
Of malice and ignorant avarice made

The tools, and your lives were the price that you paid!

The voice of the comforter speaks but in vain,
Unwelcome, though friendship is heard in the strain,
And the scenes though in light and in beauty arrayed
Seem dark and unlovely through sorrow's deep shade.
Time was when from Nature sweet solace I drew,
And song was a source of delights ever new;
But lost to the heart is their generous sway

Since my dear bonnie lads have been laid in the clay.

One hope still remains, but at times it appears
Like the vista of life in the valley of years,
Or moon of the midnight, whose shadowy form
Is struggling and trembling in gusts of the storm.

That hope is, when time and its trials are o'er,
To meet on a fairer, a happier shore:

But favourites of Heav'n are call'd earliest home-
In mercy removed from the evil to come.

O loved and lamented, and though from this sphere
For ever departed, in memory still near!

Yes, mind must relinquish her power to review
The past, when I think not, dear angels, of you.

WILLIAM C. CAMERON

S a poet of singularly tender and melting pathos, and when his education and circumstances during the earlier part of his life are taken into account, one is struck with wonder at finding thoughts both forcible and eloquent which distinguish many of his compositions.

William C. Cameron was born in Dumbarton Castle in 1822-his father being then sergeant and for sometime schoolmaster in the 42nd regiment. On the elder Cameron receiving his discharge he returned to his native Dingwall, and dying soon after, he left his wife and three children to "fight for life." The mother was greatly respected, and was employed by the late Lady Seaforth, Brahan Castle, for whom she spun linen and did needlework. William was then employed as a message and stableboy, for which in return he had his food, clothing, and education. At fourteen he became an apprentice shoemaker-a trade he never liked, although he manfully stuck to it, and completed his "time." On becoming journeyman he set out for the South, and after working in various places, he settled down in Glasgow. He married when he was scarcely twenty, was foreman for thirteen years in a large establishment, and then commenced business for himself in the classic Gallowgate, where he flourished for several years, until he met with reverses. After paying all just claims in full, he became again a servant. At present he in the employment of Messrs Menzies & Co., publishers, in their Glasgow branch. He is in his element amongst books instead of boots.

In 1875 he, under the patronage of Lady Campbell, of Garscube, issued a selection of his poems'Light, Shade, and Toil.” The volume was edited by Dr Walter C. Smith, who also prefaced the work

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by a commendatory note, and it was heartily reviewed by the press--the Quarterly Review and the Pall Mall Gazette, in particular, spoke of the poems as breathing a very genuine poetic spirit. William Cameron has long been a contributor to the "Poet's Corner" both of our leading newspapers and magazines. A love of Nature in her quieter moods, and a heart alive to the sympathies and affections of friendship are their more marked characteristics. His poems are full of thought and feeling, felicity and imagery, and smoothness of versification. His verses on the joys and sorrows of children are tiny paintings that touch the heart. They are distinct from the gibberish that so often passes for nursery rhymes-showing heart and strength, goodness of soul, and much tenderness.

THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD.

Heigh ho! my little Willie, my own sweet, bonnie boy,
Crowing like a bantam cock, in mirthfulness and joy;
What, I wonder, are the scenes, that greet your eagle eyes;
See you visions in the clouds, of loved ones in the skies?
Much I marvel if the shade of her who gave thee birth,

Comes to guard her boy again through this cold and sinful earth; Ah yes, nought else could light your eye, or make you crow so loud,

Save angels hovering o'er your head-the angel in the cloud.

Aye! dance away, my darling boy, in innocence and health, Soon, soon, old Care, in stealth will come, to rob you of your wealth;

Ah! soon, too soon, this busy life will shade your polished brow, And draw across your dimpled cheeks grief's heavy, iron plough; Your pretty curls of yellow hair grow thin, and grey, and wan, Your eyes turn dim with sorrow's tear, my bonnie, little man, Your lisping words he changed to threats, your crowing to a cough,

And moans and sighs be heard instead of silvery, ringing laugh.

Still, little Willie, play away, youth is for sport and fun;
In me a father you'll aye find, and I in you a son;

So play away with bat and ball, with bool, and hoop, and top,
And skip like lambkin on the lea, sweet minative of hope.
I would not mar your happy hours, for miser's heaps of gold,
Nor would I cloud your sunny skies, for riches yet untold;
For God intended boys should play, and God delights to see
The rosy days of childhood spent in happiness and glee.

Be careful, little Willie, pet, the world has many wiles,
And many a hollow heart lies hid beneath the blandest smiles;
Be sure each step you take is firm, nor trust too much to man,
For help will only come to those who do the best they can:
The seeds you sow in youth will grow, and bring forth in due
time

The blessed fruits of peace and joy, or sorrow, shame, and crime;

And, oh the anguish that I'd feel to see my Willie's name Disgraced disowned, would break my heart, and fill my soul with shame.

Yet, Willie, why, why thus repine, 'tis yet the moon of life,
And brightly beams your morning sun- no harbinger of strife;
Effulgent be your march to noon, and cheerful be its ray,
And I will watch your glory spread for the sake of her away;
A fading flower, I'll gaze up to your splendour, love, and light,
My heart exulting in your strength, your manliness, and might,
And moon, and noon, and eventide, shall find me at my prayers,
Beseeching God to save you from youth's many siren snares.

!

Ah yes, my wee, wee manikin, the "Benjie" of the flock,

I'll tend with a Jacob's care, my little crowing cock;

My arms shall shelter your fair head, my hand will dry your

eyes;

And I will teach your dawning mind the language of the skies. O! could I share your every woe, your every sorrow bear,

Remove each thorn from life's rough road, and drink your cup of

care;

Assuage time's sea for your frail barque, and calm its murmurs loud,

In memory dear, of one who sleeps-the angel in the cloud.

"WEE RODDIE'S" GRAVE.

There is a little spot of earth

A little bed of slumber blest!

The winter's blast-the summer's breath,
Unheeded pass, so sound's the rest
In "Roddie's" grave.

High o'er the narrow portals grow

The grass-the flowers kind Nature shed;
The daisies like a quilt of snow

Are spread - for angels make the bed-
My "Roddie's " Bed!

The eye of day delights to come
And linger at his holy grave!

I watch the shadows on the tomb-
The flickering beams seem loath to leave
"Wee Roddie's " Grave.

Two golden Summer suns have shone-
Two merry Autumns full of joy-
Two weeping winters pass'd and gone-
Two merry Spring-times have passed by-
O'er "Roddie's " Grave-

Have passed, since he has sought that shore-
Life's certain-changeless-cloudless day,
Where peace and bliss are evermore-
The mansion bright whose only way
Is through the Grave.

No mocking marble o'er him weeps-
Deep, deep, indeed, his memory lives,
Within my heart his vigil keeps

A long, dark night :-my whole soul grieves
O'er "Roddie's" Grave.

I have a little plot of earth

"Tis six feet long by three feet wide,
Nor miles of land have half the worth
Of that dear bed where rests my pride-
My "Roddie's" Grave.

Breathe, balmy winds, the trees among-
Spring-spring ye flowers he loved so well-
Sing, little birds, your sweetest song-
For wind, and flower, and bird all tell
Of "Roddie's " Grave.

THREE IN HEAVEN.

"Woman with the sable garment-
Woman with the moistened eye!
Why that sob, and weeping, wailing,
Why that heart-felt pensive sigh?
"O! my boy, so fair and rosy,
Is now dead," was the reply.

"He's not dead -dear mourning matron!
I had children same as thou-
Three on earth, and three in heaven.

Why should care-clouds shade my brow?
Gone before me to blest mansions,
Where methinks I see them now!"

Thus I heard two Rachel-mothers
Speaking of their loved ones gone;
Of their places ever vacant,

Places sacred-aye their own!
Now these mothers' eyes behold them,
Angels round their Father's throne.