'Tis by the rolling moon we measure,
The date between our nuptial night
And that blest hour which brings to light
The fruit of bliss- the pledge of faith;
When we impress upon the treasure

A father's earliest kiss.

The Moon's the Earth's enamored bride;
True to him in her very changes,

To other stars she never ranges:

Though, crossed by him, sometimes she dips

Her light, in short offended pride,
And faints to an eclipse.

the fairies revel by her sheen;
'Tis only when the Moon's above
The fire-fly kindles into love,
And flashes light to show it:
The nightingale salutes her Queen
Of Heaven, her heavenly poet.

Then ye that love-by moonlight gloom
Meet at my grave, and plight regard.
Oh! could I be the Orphéan bard
Of whom it is reported,

That nightingales sung o'er his tomb,
Whilst lovers came and courted.

CORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE.

WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837.

THE time I saw thee, Cora, last,
'Twas with congenial friends;

And calmer hours of pleasure past-
My memory seldom sends.

It was as sweet an Autumn day
As ever shone on Clyde,

And Lanark's orchards all the way,
Put forth their golden pride;

Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery,
Looked rich that sunny morn;
The scarlet hip and blackberry
So pranked September's thorn.

In Cora's glen the calm how deep!
The trees on loftiest hill

Like statues stood, or things asleep,

All motionless and still.

The torrent spoke, as if his noise

Bade earth be quiet round,

And give his loud and lonely voice
A more commanding sound.

His foam, beneath the yellow light
Of noon, came down like one
Continuous sheet of jaspers bright,
Broad rolling by the sun.

Dear Linn let loftier falling floods
Have prouder names than thine;
And king of all, enthroned in woods,
Let Niagara shine.

Barbarian, let him shake his coasts
With reeking thunders far,
Extended like the array of hosts
In broad, embattled war!

His voice appalls the wilderness:
Approaching thine, we feel
A solemn, deep melodiousness,
That needs no louder peal.

More fury would but disenchant

Thy dream-inspiring dln;

Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt,
Romantic Cora Linn.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF
ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED,*

STANZ-UNDERWALDEN.

INSPIRING and romantic Switzers' land,

Though marked with majesty by Nature's hand,
What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face?
The heroic memory of thy native race

For an account of this patriotic Swiss, and his heroic death at the battle of Sempach, see Dr. Beattie's "Switzerland Illustrated,” vol. ii, pp. 111-116.

4

Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee;
And made their rocks the ramparts of the free;
Their fastnesses rolled back the invading tide

Of conquest, and their mountains taught them pride:
Hence they have patriot names - in fancy's eye,
Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky;
Patriots who made the pageantries of kings
Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things,
Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust,
Imperishable, for their cause was just.

Heroes of old! to whom the Nine have strung
Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung;
Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace
The aisles of many a consecrated place,
Confess how few of you can match in fame
The martyr Winkelried's immortal name! *

The advocates of classical learning tell us that, without classic historians, we should never become acquainted with the most splendid traits of human character; but one of those traits, patriotic self-devotion, may surely be heard of elsewhere, without learning Greek and Latin. There are few, who have read modern history, unacquainted with the noble voluntary death of the Switzer Winkelried. Whether he was a peasant or man of superior birth, is a point not quite settled in history, though I am inclined to suspect that he was simply a peasant. But this is certain, that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving that there was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, he he opened a passage for his fellow combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms, and won the victory

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SONG OF OUR QUEEN.

SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ.

VICTORIA'S Sceptre o'er the deep

Has touched, and broken slavery's chain;

Yet, strange magician! she enslaves

Our hearts within her own domain.

Her spirit is devout, and burns
With thoughts averse to bigotry;

Yet she, herself the idol, turns
Our thoughts into idolatry.

LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.

I HOLD it a religious duty

To love and worship children's beauty;
They've least the taint of earthly clod,
They're freshest from the hand of God;
With heavenly looks they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure;
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.

I chanced to, yesterday, behold

A maiden child of beauty's mould;
'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,

The palace of our patriot Queen.