My breast throbs with a wondrous joy, While every life-pulse seems to say"Haste to thy love that's far away!"

XCVI.

ENVIE.

ANE plante there is of the deidliest pouir
Quhilk flourischis deeply in the hert;
Its lang rutis creip and fald outoure
Ilka vive and breathen part:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

Blak is the sap of its baleful stem,

Lyk funeral blicht its leavis do fal ; In its moisture is quenchit luve's pure flame, It drappis rust on inmost saul: Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon, Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

Evir it flourischis meikel and hie,

Nae stay, nae hindraunce will it bruik ;
In ae nicht sprynging up, a burdlie tree,
Schedding its bale at ae single luik :
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon,
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.

It canna be kythit to the gudely sun,
It pynyth sae at his nobil sicht;
It shrinkyth quyte like a thing undone

Quhan luikit on by the blessit licht :
In hert whence heevinlie luve hath gone
Thilke evil weid aye bourgenis on.

Fell Envie's th' plant of mortal pouir
Quhilk flourischis grenelye in the hert-
Raining the slawe and poisonous shouir
Quhilk cankereth the vertuous part:
Black Envie wherever its seed is sawin,
Fashion is a hert like the foul Fiend's awin!

XCVII.

LOVE'S TOKENS.

LOVE's herald is not speech

His fear-fraught tongue is mute

His presence is bewrayed

By blushes deep that shoot
Athwart the conscious brow,

And mantle on the cheek,
Then fleet for tints of snow
Which soft confusion speak;
Thus red and white have place
By turns on true love's face.

Love vaunteth not his worth
In gaudy, glozing phrase,
His home is not in breast

Where thought of worlding stays;

In modest loyaltie

His fountain doth abide ;

In bosom greatly good

The lucid pulses tide

That ebb and flow there ever,

Till soul and body sever.

Trust not the ready lip

Whence flows the fulsome song-
True love aye gently hymns,

False love chaunts loud and long.
Young Beauty, cherish well

The bashful, anxious eye,

The lip that may not move,

The breast that stills the sigh

A recreant to thee

Their lord will never be !

XCVIII.

O SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS CHANGE!

O SAY not pure affections change
When fixed they once have been,
Or that between two noble hearts
Hate e'er can intervene !

Though coldness for a while may freeze
The love-springs of the soul,
Though angry pride its sympathies
May for a time control,

Yet such estrangement cannot last—
A tone, a touch, a look,
Dissolves at once the icyness

That crisp'd affection's brook:

Again they feel the genial glow
Within the bosom burn,

And all their pent-up tenderness
With tenfold force return!

XCIX.

THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILYE.

THE Earlsburn Glen is gay and green,
The Earlsburn water cleir,

And blythely blume on Earlsburn bank
The broom and eke the brier!

Twa Sisters gaed up Earlsburn glen—
Twa maidens bricht o' blee-
The tane she was the Rose sae red,
The tither the Fair Lilye!

"Ye mauna droop and dwyne, Sister". Said Rose to fair Lilye

"Yer heart ye mauna brek, SisterFor ane that's ower the sea:

"The vows we sillie maidens hear
Frae wild and wilfu' man,

Are as the words the waves wash out
When traced upon the san'!"

66 I mauna think

yer speech is sooth,"

Saft answered the Lilye

"I winna dout mine ain gude Knicht Tho' he's ayont the sea!"

Then scornfully the Rose sae red
Spake to the puir Lilye-

"The vows he feigned at thy bouir door,
He plicht in mine to me !"

"I'll hame and spread the sheets, Sister,
And deck my bed sae hie-

The bed sae wide made for a bride,
For I think I sune sal die!

"Your wierd I sal na be, Sister,
As mine I fear ye've bin-
Your luve I wil na cross, Sister,
It were a mortal sin!"

Earlsburn Glen is green to see,
Earlsburn water cleir-

Of the siller birk in Earlsburn Wood
They framit the Maiden's bier!

There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir,
She nevir lifts an ee-

That dame was ance the Rose sae red,
She is now a pale Lilye.

A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall,
Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green;
He wonne the weed and lost the flouir,
And grief aye dims his een :

At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht,

The warrior kneels in prayer-—

He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird,

And wishes he were there!

C.

LIKE MIST ON A MOUNTAIN TOP BROKEN AND GRAY.

LIKE mist on a mountain top broken and gray,

The dream of my early day fleeted away :

Now the evening of life, with its shadows, steals on,

And memory reposes on years that are gone!