Why does the rose, with drooping head,
Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
Their golden time of life had fled—
It was their dying hour!

Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past—they lived to die—
It was their dying hour!

Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aërial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse

To meet the morn with beams so bright?

Why does the man we saw to-day,

To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away—
It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I'VE listen'd to the midnight wind,
Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
The mournful music of the mind,
The echo of a tear;

And still methought the hollow sound

Which, melting, swept along,

The voice of other days had found,
With all the powers of song.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind,

And thought of friends untrue-
Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
That nought could e'er undo;
Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright-
Of joys which fancy gave-
Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
Were darken'd in the grave.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind
When all was still as death;
When nought was heard before, behind-
Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
And I have sat at such an hour

And heard the sick man's sigh;
Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
At that lone moment die.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And wept for others' woe;

Nor could the heart such music find
To bid its tear-drops flow.

The melting voice of one we loved,
Whose voice was heard no more,
Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
Still breathing as before.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind,
And sat beside the dead,

And felt those movings of the mind
Which own a secret dread.

The ticking clock, which told the hour,
Had then a sadder chime;

And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,
Which sung the dirge of time.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind,
When, o'er the new-made grave

Of one whose heart was true and kind,
Its rudest blasts did rave.

Oh! there was something in the sound-
A mournful, melting tone—

Which led the thoughts to that dark ground
Where he was left alone.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind,

And courted sleep in vain,

While thoughts like these have oft combined

To rack the wearied brain.

And even when slumber, soft and deep,

Has seen the eyelid close,

The restless soul, which cannot sleep,

Has stray'd till morning rose.

ROBERT DAVIDSON.

ROBERT DAVIDSON was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the churchyard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.

FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.

ADIEU! a lang and last adieu,

My native Caledonia!

For while your shores were in my view,
I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!
Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,
Fit emblem of your sons of old,
Whose valour, more than mines of gold,
Has honour'd Caledonia.

I think how happy I could be,
To live and die upon ye, O!
Though distant many miles from thee,
My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!
My fancy haunts your mountains steep,
Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,
Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep
To gladden Caledonia.

Still mem'ry turns to where I spent
Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!
Though by misfortune from it rent,
It's dearer still than ony, O!
In vain I'm told our vessel hies
To fertile fields an' kindly skies;

But still they want the charm that ties
My heart to Caledonia.

My breast had early learn'd to glow

At name of Caledonia;

Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, O!