Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me, gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

I'VE PLUCKED THE BERRY.

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut

from the tree,

But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me;

I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly

peer

With their wild eyes like glittering beads, to note if

harm were near;

I passed them by and blessed them all; I felt that it was good

To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home is in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing,

He pecks his swelling breast and neck and trims his little wing,

He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,

I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay: Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness,

It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?

What is Glory? What is Fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;
A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow;
The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast,-
This is the World's fame at the best!

MOTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP, an American historian, born at Dorchester, Mass., April 15, 1814; died at Dorset, near Dorchester, England, May 29, 1877. He entered Harvard College at the age of thirteen, and was graduated four years afterward. He then studied in the German universities of Berlin and Göttingen, where he became intimate with Bismarck, with whom he maintained friendly relations during his whole life. He wrote two novels, Morton's Hope (1839), and Merry Mount not long after, though it was not published until 1849. He had become convinced that history, not novel-writing, was his vocation; and as early as 1846 had begun to collect materials for a history of Holland. He went to Europe to gather further materials; and it was ten years before his first history, The Rise of the Dutch Republic, was ready for the press. In 1861, shortly after the publication of the first two volumes of his History of the United Netherlands, he was appointed United States Minister to Austria, a position which he held until 1867. In 1869 he was appointed United States Minister to England, but recalled in the following year. In 1873 he had an attack of an apoplectic character, which resulted in partial paralysis. Besides the two novels already mentioned, and many contributions to periodicals, mostly of a historical character, Mr.