And I said-"She is warmer than Dian: These cheeks, where the worm never dies, To shine on us with her bright eyes— But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said "Sadly this star I mistrustHer pallor I strangely mistrust :Oh, hasten!-oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly-let us fly!-for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they trailed in the dust In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust- I replied "This is nothing but dreaming: Its Sybilic splendour is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night: See!-it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, But were stopped by the door of a tomb- And I said "What is written, sweet sister, Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sereAs the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried-"It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed-I journeyed down here— Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. BY ROBERT BURNS. IEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour: For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-neld, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, St. 1: Thou's, Thou earth. St. 2: no, not; hast; maun, must; stoure, broken-ur neebor, neighbour; weet, wet. St. 3: glinted, shone, glanced. St. 4: wa's maun, walls must; bield, shelter; stane, stone; histie stibble-field, dry and rugged stubblefield; alane, alone. SUBLIMITY OF THE PROPHET ISAIAH. BY ROBERT LOWTH, BISHOP OF LONDON. I HOEVER wishes to understand the full force and excellence of the figure of Personification, as well as the elegant use of it in the Hebrew ode, must apply to Isaiah, whom I do not scruple to pronounce the sublimest of poets. He will there find, in |