Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods' thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray-
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

-Robert Burns.

IRST LOVE will with the heart remain
When its hopes are all gone by;

As frail rose blossoms still retain
Their fragrance when they die :

And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With the shades 'mid which they sprung,
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which spring's blossoms hung.

-John Clare.

WILL

affection still enfold me When the day of life declines, When old age with ruthless rigor

Plows my face in furrowed lines; When the eye forgets its seeing,

And the hand forgets its skill, And the very words prove rebel

To the mind's once kingly will; When the deaf ear, strained to listen, Scarcely hears the opening word, And the unfathomed depths of feeling Are by no swift current stirred; When fond memory, like a limner, Many a line perspective casts, Spreading out our bygone pleasures On the canvas of the Past;

When the leaping blood grows sluggish, And the fire of youth has fled;

When the friends who now surround us Half are numbered with the dead;

When the years appear to shorten,

Scarcely leaving us a trace; When old Time with bold approaches Marks his dial on my face;

When our present hopes, all gathered,

Lie like dead flowers on our track; When the whole of our existence

Is one fearful looking back; When each wasted hour of talent, Hardly measured now at all, Sends its witness back to haunt us, Like the writing on the wall; When the ready tongue is palsied,

And the form is bowed with care; When our only hope is Heaven, And our only help is prayer; When our idols, broken round us, Fall amid the ranks of men ; Until Death uplifts the curtainWill thy love endure till then?

He came not,-no, he came not,―

The night came on alone,-
The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,-

I know its touch was kind;

It drew me nearer,-nearer,—
We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

-Richard Monckton Milnes, (Lord Houghton.)