III.

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,

Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet
The fair earth's messengers,

That woo him, from the moaning main, Back to her glorious bowers again.

IV.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam in island-vales Of golden-fruited shade;

Across his lone ship's wake they bring A vision and a glow of spring.

V.

And, oh! ye masters of the lay,
Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way,
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

VI.

Their power is from the brighter clime

That in our birth hath part;

Their tones are of the world, which Time
Sears not within the heart;

They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

VII.

They call us, with a voice divine,
Back to our early love,-

Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove:

Welcome high thought, and holy strain,

That make us truth's and heaven's again!

THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

I.

THE laverock loves the dewy light;
The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
When song and sunshine fill the air:
But I love best the summer moon,

With all her stars, pure streaming still,
For then in light and love I meet

The sweet Lass of Gleneslan-mill.

II.

The violets lay their blossoms low,
Beneath her white foot, on the plain;
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain.
O, might I clasp her to my heart,

And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loth to woo, and long to win,
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.

C

III.

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,

O'er Blackwood-brow bright glowed the moon,
Rills murmured music, and the stars

Refused to set our heads aboon:

Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
Our mixing breaths, all was so still,
Till morning's light shone on her locks-
Farewell Lass of Gleneslan-mill.

IV.

Wert thou an idol all of gold,
Had I the eye of worldish care,
I could not think thee half so sweet,
Look on thee so, or love thee mair.

Till death's cold dew-drop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,
Thine every wish of joy and love,

My Lass of green Gleneslan-mill!

[Gleneslan is a wild and romantic glen between Nithisdale and Galloway; the mill stands, or stood, in the middle of the valley--I need not add on the bank of a fine stream.]

SONNETS,

On the Busts of Milton, in Youth and Age, at

Stourhead.

BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES.

IN YOUTH.

MILTON, our noblest poet, in the grace

Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair,
That brow, untouched by one faint line of care,
To mar its openness, we seem to trace
The front of the first lord of human race,
'Mid thy own Paradise pourtrayed so fair,
Ere Sin or Sorrow scathed it :-such the air
Which characters thy youth. Shall Time efface
These lineaments, as crowding cares assail?
It is the lot of fall'n humanity.

What boots it?

Armed in adamantine mail

The' unconquerable mind, and genius high,

Right onward hold their way through weal or woe,

Or whether life's brief lot be high or low.