Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

When the Glen all is Still.-By H. S. RIDDell.

When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain;

When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to

roam;

And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
Inviting his love to return to her home:
There meet me, my Mary, adown by the wild wood,
Where violets and daisies sleep saft in the dew;
Our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the heaven's own orient blue.

Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming; Thy cheek shall be fanned by the breeze of the lawn;

The angel of love shall be 'ware of thy coming,
And hover around thee till rise of the dawn.
O Mary! no transports of Heaven's decreeing

Can equal the joys of such meeting to me;
For the light of thine eye is the home of my being,
And my soul's fondest hopes are all gathered to
thee.

Florence Nightingale."-By F. BENNOCH.

With lofty song we love to cheer

The hearts of daring men,

Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.

But now we sing of lowly deeds

Devoted to the brave,

When she, who stems the wound that bleeds,

A hero's life may save :

And heroes saved exulting tell

How well her voice they knew ; How Sorrow near it could not dwell, But spread its wings and flew.

Neglected, dying in despair,

They lay till woman came

To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,

She called their fluttering spirits back,
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.

When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence stilled the wildest tongue,
And holy made the place.

They knew that they were cared for then;
Their eyes forgot their tears;

In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years-

Of early years when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale;

They woke the angel bending there
Was-Florence Nightingale!

This lady, the daughter of William Shore Nightingale, Esq., of Embley Park, Hampshire, is justly celebrated for her exertions in tending the sick and wounded at Scutari during the Crimean war in 1854-55 In directing and presiding over the band of female nurses, the services of Miss Nightingale were invaluable, and gratefully acknowledged by her sovereign and the country. She still (1876) continues her career of disinterested usefulness.

Wae's me for Prince Charlie.-By WILLIAM GLEN.
A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,
He warbled sweet and clearly,
An' aye the owercome o' his sang

Was, 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie!'
Oh, when I heard the bonny soun',
The tears cam' happin' rarely;

I took my bannet aff my head,

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

Quoth I: 'My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a sang ye borrow?

Are these some words ye 've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow?' 'Oh, no, no, no!' the wee bird sang; 'I've flown since mornin' early, But sic a day o' wind and rain

Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie.

'On hills that are by right his ain,
He roves a lanely stranger;
On every side he's pressed by want—
On every side is danger:
Yestreen I met him in a glen,

My heart maist bursted fairly,
For sadly changed indeed was he-
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie.

'Dark night cam' on, the tempest roared
Loud o'er the hills and valleys;
And where was 't that your Prince lay down,
Whase hame should been a palace?
He rowed him in a Hieland plaid,
Which covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom-
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie.'

But now the bird saw some red-coats, And he shook his wings wi' anger : 'Oh, this is no a land for me;

I'll tarry here nae langer.'
He hovered on the wing a while,

Ere he departed fairly;

But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was, ' Wae's me for Prince Charlie.'

The Wee Pair o' Shoon.—By JAMes Smith.

Oh, lay them canny doon, Jamie,
An' tak' them frae my sicht!
They mind me o' her sweet wee face,
An' sparkling ee sae bricht.

Oh, lay them saftly doon beside

The lock o' silken hair;

For the darlin' o' thy heart an' mine
Will never wear them mair!

But oh! the silvery voice, Jamie,
That fondly lisped your name,

An' the wee bit hands sae aft held oot
Wi' joy when ye cam' hame!
An' oh, the smile-the angel smile,
That shone like simmer morn;
An' the rosy mou' that socht a kiss
When ye were weary worn!

The eastlin' wind blaws cauld, Jamie,
The snaw's on hill an' plain;
The flowers that decked my lammie's
Are faded noo, an' gane!
Oh, dinna speak! I ken she dwells
In yon fair land aboon;

But sair's the sicht that blin's my ee-
That wee, wee pair o' shoon!

grave

Agenor. Pardon me

Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request; Grant me thy help till this distracted state

Rise tranquil from her griefs-'twill not be long, If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, Whether I live or die.

Agenor. Die! Ere that hour,

May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown!
Íon. Death is not jealous of the mild decay
That gently wins thee his; exulting youth
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride,
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp
His prey benumbed at noontide.-Let me see
The captain of the guard.

Crythes. I kneel to crave

Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed
On one who loved him well.

Ion. I cannot mark thee,

That wak'st the memory of my father's weakness,
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learned the need of luxury. I grant
For thee and thy brave comrades ample share
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,
May glorious issues wait it. In our realm
We shall not need it longer.

Crythes. Dost intend

To banish the firm troops before whose valour Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave Our city naked to the first assault

Of reckless foes?

Ion. No, Crythes; in ourselves,

In our own honest hearts and chainless hands
Will be our safeguard; while we do not use
Our power towards others, so that we should blush
To teach our children; while the simple love
Of justice and their country shall be born
With dawning reason; while their sinews grow

Hard 'midst the gladness of heroic sports,
We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace,
One selfish passion, or one venal sword.

I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop-
For I esteem them valiant-must no more
With luxury which suits a desperate camp
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor,
Ere night.

Crythes. My lord

Ion. No more-my word hath passed.-
Medon, there is no office I can add

To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home-
Thy too delightful home-befriend the stranger
As thou didst me; there sometimes waste a thought
On thy spoiled inmate.

Medon. Think of thee, my lord?

Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign.

Ion. Prithee, no more.-Argives! I have a boon
To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin
In death the father from whose heart in life
Stern fate divided me, think gently of him!
Think that beneath his panoply of pride
Were fair affections crushed by bitter wrongs
Which fretted him to madness; what he did,
Alas! ye know; could you know what he suffered,
Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty; swear to me
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves
The means of sovereignty: our country's space,
So happy in its smallness, so compact,
Needs not the magic of a single name
Which wider regions may require to draw
Their interest into one; but, circled thus,

Like a blest family, by simple laws

May tenderly be governed-all degrees,

Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined
By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps,
But blended into one-a single form

Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords
Of sympathy pervading, shall endow
With vital beauty; tint with roseate bloom
In times of happy peace, and bid to flash
With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands
Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me
That ye will do this!

Medon. Wherefore ask this now?

Thou shalt live long; the paleness of thy face,
Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now,
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy
Of glorious years.

Ion. The gods approve me then!
Yet I will use the function of a king,
And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die,
And leave no issue, ye will seek the power
To govern in the free-born people's choice,
And in the prudence of the wise.

Medon and others. We swear it!

Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! Now give me leave a moment to approach That altar unattended.

[He goes to the altar. Gracious gods!

In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,
Look on me now; and if there is a power,

As at this solemn time I feel there is,

Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes The spirit of the beautiful that lives

In earth and heaven; to ye I offer up

This conscious being, full of life and love,
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow
End all her sorrows!

CLEMANTHE rushes forward.

Clemanthe, Hold!

[Stabs himself.

Let me support him-stand away-indeed

I have best right, although ye know it not,

To cleave to him in death.

Ion. This is a joy

I did not hope for-this is sweet indeed.
Bend thine eyes on me!

Clem. And for this it was

Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee!
Couldst thou think

I would be so divorced?

Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe

It was a shallow and an idle thought;
'Tis past; no show of coldness frets us now;
No vain disguise, my girl. Yet thou wilt think
On that which, when I feigned, I truly spoke-
Wilt thou not, sweet one?

Clem. I will treasure all.

Although long engaged in public business-in the Colonial Office-MR (now SIR) HENRY TAYLOR is distinguished both as a poet and prose essayist. He is a native of the county of Durham, born in 1800, only son of George Taylor, of Wilton Hall. In 1827 appeared his play of Isaac Comnenus,' which met with few readers,' says Southey, ' and was hardly heard of.' In 1834 was published Philip van Artevelde, a play in two parts, characterised by its author as an 'historical romance cast in a dramatic and rhythmical form.' The subject was suggested by Southey, and is the history of the two Van Arteveldes, father and son, 'citizens of revolted Ghent, each of whom swayed for a season almost the whole power of Flanders against their legitimate prince, and each of whom paid the penalty of ambition by an untimely and violent death.'

There is no game so desperate which wise men
Will not take freely up for love of power,
Or love of fame, or merely love of play.
These men are wise, and then reputed wise,
And so their great repute of wisdom grows,
Till for great wisdom a great price is bid,
And then their wisdom they do part withal.
Such men must still be tempted with high stakes:
Philip van Artevelde is such a man.

As the portrait of a revolutionary champion, Philip is powerfully delineated by the dramatist, and there are also striking and effective scenes in the play. The style and diction resemble those of Joanna Baillie's dramas-pure, elevated, and well sustained, but wanting the brief electric touches and rapid movement necessary to insure complete success in this difficult department of literature. Two years after the historical romance had established Henry Taylor's reputation as a poet, he produced a prose treatise, The Statesman, a small volume treating of 'such topics as experience rather than inventive meditation suggested to him.'

The counsels and remarks of the author are distinguished by their practical worldly character; he appears as a sort of political Chesterfield, and the work was said by Maginn to be 'the art of official humbug systematically digested and familiarly explained.' It abounds, however, in acute and sensible observations, shewing that the poet was no mere visionary or romantic dreamer. The other works of Sir Henry are-Edwin the Fair, an historical drama, 1842; The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems, 1847; Notes from Life, 1847; Notes from Books, 1849; The Virgin Widow, a play, 1850; St Clement's Eve, a play, 1862; A Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems, 1868. The poetical works of Sir Henry Taylor enjoy a steady popularity with the more intellectual class of readers. Philip van Artevelde has gone through eight editions, Isaac Comnenus and Edwin through five, and the others have all been reprinted.

The Death of Launoy, one of the Captains of Ghent. From Philip van Artevelde, Part I.

Second Dean. Beside Nivelle the Earl and Launoy

met.

Six thousand voices shouted with the last :
'Ghent, the good town! Ghent and the Chaperons
Blancs!'

But from that force thrice-told there came the cry
Of Flanders, with the Lion of the Bastard!'
So then the battle joined, and they of Ghent
Gave back and opened after three hours' fight;
And hardly flying had they gained Nivelle,
When the earl's vanguard came upon their rear
Ere they could close the gate, and entered with them.
Then all were slain save Launoy and his guard,
Who, barricaded in the minster tower,
Made desperate resistance; whereupon

The earl waxed wrothful, and bade fire the church.
First Burgher. Say'st thou? Oh, sacrilege accursed!
Was 't done?

Second Dean. 'Twas done-and presently was heard a yell,

And after that the rushing of the flames!
Then Launoy from the steeple cried aloud
'A ransom!' and held up his coat to sight
With florins filled, but they without but laughed
And mocked him, saying: 'Come amongst us, John,
And we will give thee welcome; make a leap-
Come out at window, John.' With that the flames
Rose up and reached him, and he drew his sword,
Cast his rich coat behind him in the fire,
And shouting: 'Ghent, ye slaves !' leapt freely forth,
When they below received him on their spears.
And so died John of Launoy.

First Burgher. A brave end.

'Tis certain we must now make peace by times; The city will be starved else.-Will be, said I? Starvation is upon us.

Van Artevelde. I never looked that he should live so long.

He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
He seemed to live by miracle: his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind,

In Crabb Robinson's Diary, vol. iii., is the following notice Office: Taylor is known as literary executor of Southey, and of Henry Taylor, then under Sir James Stephen in the Colonial author of several esteemed dramas, especially Philip van Artevelde. He married Lord Monteagle's daughter. He is now one of my most respected acquaintance. His manners are shy, and he is more a man of letters than of the world. He published a book called The Statesman, which some thought presumptuous Taylor was the only one of a generation younger than his own in a junior clerk in a government office.' Southey said Henry whom he had taken into his heart of hearts.

FROM 1830

And peril to his body. He was one
Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment, known to few.
Then comes the man who has the luck to live,
And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances,
And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times,
Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endowed
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others
Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance,
Whilst lighter barks pushed past them; to whom add
A smaller tally, of the singular few,

Who, gifted with predominating powers,
Bear yet a temperate will, and keep the peace.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

Father John. Had Launoy lived, he might have
passed for great,

But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges.
The sphere-the scale of circumstance—is all
Which makes the wonder of the many. Still
An ardent soul was Launoy's, and his deeds
Were such as dazzled many a Flemish dame.
There'll some bright eyes in Ghent be dimmed for
him.

Van Artevelde. They will be dim, and then be
bright again.

All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion;

And many a cloud drifts by, and none sojourns.
Lightly is life laid down amongst us now,

And lightly is death mourned: a dusk star blinks

As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo!
In a wide solitude of wintry sky

Twinkles the re-illuminated star,

And all is out of sight that smirched the ray.
We have no time to mourn.

Father John. The worse for us!

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure

For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
Yet such the barrenness of busy life!
From shelf to shelf Ambition clambers up,
To reach the naked'st pinnacle of all;
Whilst Magnanimity, absolved from toil,
Reposes self-included at the base.
But this thou know'st.

The Lay of Elena?-From the same.
A bark is launched on Como's lake,
A maiden sits abaft;

A little sail is loosed to take

The night-wind's breath, and waft
The maiden and her bark away,
Across the lake and up the bay.
And what doth there that lady fair
Upon the wavelet tossed?
Before her shines the evening star,
Behind her in the woods afar

The castle lights are lost. . . .

It was not for the forms-though fair, Though grand they were beyond compareIt was not only for the forms

Of hills in sunshine or in storms,

Or only unrestrained to look

On wood and lake, that she forsook
By day or night

Her home, and far
Wandered by light

Of sun or star.

It was to feel her fancy free,

Free in a world without an end,

With ears to hear, and eyes to see, And heart to apprehend.

It was to leave the earth behind,
And rove with liberated mind,
As fancy led, or choice or chance,
Through wildered regions of romance.

Be it avowed, when all is said,

...

She trod the path the many tread.
She loved too soon in life; her dawn
Was bright with sunbeams, whence is drawn
A sure prognostic that the day
Will not unclouded pass away.

Too young she loved, and he on whom
Her first love lighted, in the bloom
Of boyhood was, and so was graced
With all that earliest runs to waste.
Intelligent, loquacious, mild,

Yet gay and sportive as a child,
With feelings light and quick, that came
And went like flickerings of flame;
A soft demeanour, and a mind
Bright and abundant in its kind,
That, playing on the surface, made
A rapid change of light and shade,
Or, if a darker hour perforce

At times o'ertook him in his course,
Still, sparkling thick like glow-worms, shewed
Life was to him a summer's road-
Such was the youth to whom a love
For grace and beauty far above

Their due deserts, betrayed a heart

Which might have else performed a prouder part.

First love the world is wont to call
The passion which was now her all.
So be it called; but be it known
The feeling which possessed her now
Was novel in degree alone;
Love early marked her for his own;
Soon as the winds of heaven had blown
Upon her, had the seed been sown

In soil which needed not the plough;

And passion with her growth had grown,
And strengthened with her strength; and how
Could love be new, unless in name,
Degree, and singleness of aim?

A tenderness had filled her mind
Pervasive, viewless, undefined;
As keeps the subtle fluid oft
In secret, gathering in the soft
And sultry air, till felt at length,
In all its desolating strength-
So silent, so devoid of dread,
Her objectless affections spread;
Not wholly unemployed, but squandered
At large where'er her fancy wandered-
Till one attraction, one desire
Concentred all the scattered fire;
It broke, it burst, it blazed amain,
It flashed its light o'er hill and plain,
O'er earth below and heaven above-
And then it took the name of love.

We add a few sentences of Sir Henry's prose writings :

On the Ethics of Politics.-From The Statesman.' The moral principle of private life which forbids one man to despoil another of his property, is outraged in the last degree when one man holds another in slavery. Carry it therefore in all its absoluteness into political life, and you require a statesman to do what he can, under any circumstances whatever, to procure immediate freedom for any parties who may be holden in slavery Yet, take in the dominion of the state which he serves. the case of negro slaves in the British dominions in the condition of barbarism in which they were thirty years