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TO DAVID GRAY.

(Author of "The Luggie," &c.)

I WOULD not be lying yonder,
Where thou, beloved, art lying,

Though the nations should crown me living,
And murmur my praises dying.

Better this fierce pulsation

Better this aching brain

Than dream and hear faintly above me
The cry of the wind and the rain;

Than lie in the kirkyard lonely,

With fingers and toes upcurl'd,

And be conscious of never a motion

Save the slow rolling round of the world.

I would not be lying yonder,

Though the seeds I had sown were springing;

I would not be sleeping yonder,

And be done with striving and singing.

For the eyes are blinded with mildew-
The lips are clammy with clay,
And worms in the ears are crawling,
But the brain is the brain for aye.

The brain is warm and glowing,
Whatever the body be;

It stirs like a thing that breatheth
And dreams of the past and to be.

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If the brain like a thing that breatheth

Is full of the Past and To Be,

The silence is far more awful
Than the shriek and the agony ;

And the hope that sweetened living
Is gone with the light of the sun,
And the struggle seems wholly over,
And nothing at all seems done;

And the dreams are heavy with losses,
And sins, and errors, and wrongs;
And you cannot hear in the darkness
If the people are singing your songs!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.

THE Highland Hills! There are songs of mirth,
And joy, and love, on the gladsome earth,
For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled
In the forest glade, and the woodland wild.
Then come with me from the haunts of men
To the glassy lake in the mountain glen,
Where the sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills,
That chainless leap from the Highland Hills.

The Highland Hills! It is summer now,
And the song-bird sits on the leafy bough,
And the trees bend forth in the golden light
Their foliage green o'er the waters bright,
Where flowers by the brook's fair margin bloom
And scent the air with their wild perfume,
Till the zephyr bland with their odour fills,
The silent vale of the Highland Hills.

The Highland Hills! When the sparkling rays
Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze;

When the noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow.

Then, roam with me where the waterfalls

Bid echoes wake in the rocky halls,

Till the grandeur wild in thy heart instils
A deep delight in the Highland Hills.

The Highland Hills! When the noonday smiles
On the slumbering lakes and the fairy isles,
We'll clamber high where the heather waves
By the warriors' cairn and the foemen's graves,
And I'll sing to thee in the bright day's prime
Of the days of old and ancient time,

And thy heart unknown to the care that chills,
Shall gladly joy in the Highland Hills.

The Highland Hills! In the twilight dim,
To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb,
And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far,
Till the beacon light of the evening star,
And the lamp of night with its virgin beams
Look down on the deep and shining streams,
Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills
With joy and love on the Highland Hills.

The Highland Hills! There are palm-tree bowers, And spicy groves with their balmy flowers;

Where Araby's children love to roam

Far away in the Indian's sunny home;

But dearer far is the storm-beat strand,

And the rugged shores of our own loved land,

Where Nature reigns as her fancy wills,

In the mountain glen and the Highland Hills.

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CONNOR'S VOW.

(From the "Scotsman.")

"I'm going, Mora, darling!"
The brave Connor cried :
"Fare ye well, Mora, darling,
My joy and my pride.

Sure the vow I've sworn on high,

For my country's cause to die;
And I'll never turn and fly,

While this sword's by my side !"

"Oh stay, Connor, dearest !
Sweet husband adored;
Oh take back, acushla,

Thy last plighted word.

O my bravest and my best!

Would this heart were now at rest,

With the baby at my breast!"
Weeping Mora implored.

The bugles they are sounding
A wild martial strain;
The hollow drum's resounding
O'er mountain and plain.
From her anguish and dismay,
He has torn himself away,
At the dawning of the day,
For the field of the slain.

Soft the summer winds are sighing
O'er the true hearts that died.
Sore the widow'd Mora's crying,
For low lies her pride.

In a soldier's lonely grave,
By yon wildly roaring wave,
Sleeps the bravest of the brave,

With his sword by his side!

JAMES SMITH.

THE LANCES OF THE FREE.

"Ho, dark one from the golden South, –
Ho, fair one from the North;

Ho, coat of mail, and spear of sheen-
Ho, wherefore ride ye forth?"

"We come from mount, we come from cave,

We come across the sea,

In long array, in bright array,
To Montreal's companie."
Oh, the merry, merry band,
Light heart and heavy hand-
Oh, the Lances of the Free!

"Ho, princes of the castled height, Ho, burghers of the town; Apulia's strength, Romagna's pride,

And Tusca's old renown!

Why quail ye thus? Why pall ye thus ?
What spectre do ye see?"

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