A little care lest we should cause them shake
To splitting, at the follies of another,

Who, in this point, is nothing less than brother
To all of us :-it is our common lot

To have our failings; who, I pray, should not
Have his, and why not his forgiveness too?
At very best, 'tis little that we do
Aright; yet true it is that charity,

On mutual grounds,-is somwhat of a rarity!
Oh! gently, gently let us ever scan
The many failings of poor erring man!
Where is the sin that brings not in its train,
The vengeance of retributory pain?
Who, save sad self, may ever, partly tell
The terrors of the heart's tumultuous swell
When chafed to tossing by the bitter blast
Born of the clouds and darkness of the past?
When conscience executes its stern behest
On points that seemed to us, long, long, at rest,-
It glares, a raging lion in our way,—

E'en when we deemed him cheated of his prey
By timely flight ;-alas! 'tis only then
We meet the monster-in his very den!
Then be the archer's shaft with caution sent,
Lest it should wound, where, haply, his intent
Had been to spare ;-for who would, gladly, break
The bruised reed!-Who would not rather make
It raise its drooping head, and wish the dew
Of heaven might make its beauty bloom anew?
In secret, oft the bitter tear will flow

For woes the front were studious not to show
Before the cold--perhaps the flouting gaze
Of fellow-man! the stifled sigh betrays

At times the strife within the bosom's core,
And if some one would venture to explore
Its hidden cause, with laboured ease we try
To seem so very calm !—although the eye,
That will speak out, in spite of every curb,
Blabs of some thoughts that inwardly disturb,
Like the volcano's deeply smouldering wrath,
Ere yet it bursts upon its fiery path :—
Calm is the sky above; around are thrown
Both sights and sounds which quiet for its own
Adopts: the distant city's busy hum

Like music of the far-off wave will come'
Upon the listening ear ;-and then we mark
The silent shrub-grown portal of the dark
Pavilion of devouring flame ;-the rock-
(That shows the scathing of the tempest shock)
The noteless eyry of the soaring cloud,
Whose downy pinion covers, as a shroud,
The kingly glory of the mountain-head

(Like the shorn honour of the crownless dead!)—
The drowsy humming of the humble bees;
The low-breathed whispers of the rustling trees;-
And flocks of peaceful sheep; and simple pipe
Of gentle shepherd; tempting cluster ripe
Of tender vine ;-and awe-inspiring gloom
(Scarce second to the horror of the tomb!)
Of the deep forest-mute as marshalled host
When every breathless warrior at his post

These "Random Rhymes" were never completed; and

what Mr. Ramsay's intentions were the writer has not discovered.

M3

MORNING: A FRAGMENT.

How sweetly, now, a virgin blush
Aurora's cheek began to flush!

The rose was bathed in di'mond dew
That lent fresh lustre to its hue ;
Night had resigned her every gem-
That doffed her starry diadem ;
Whilst, riding in her car of light,
Fair harbinger of day or night,
Venus showered her silver beam
On hill and dale and steaming stream.
From the still vales the mists arose

Where, through the night they sought repose,
To wanton round the mountain's brow
Crowned with the everlasting snow,

And there to hail the Prince of day,
Basking in his orient ray.

The winds were chained in troubled sleep
To some lone cavern of the deep;
(Pillowed on the rock they lay,

The billows sang their lullaby)

Whence issuing, o'er the chilly wave

Charged with the sailor's doom they rave;

With heavy moan along the surge,

Foreboding death they chant his dirge,
Rousing the spirit of the storm.

ON HEARING A LARK SINGING IN A CAGE

IN LONDON.

SWEET bird! it well may touch the heart

Thy lively lay to hear,

Since thou and freedom dear must part

To please a listless ear!

Though clear and careless seems thy note
For one thus held in thrall,
What wonder if it had, methought,
Some sadness in its fall!

A withered turf-a water glass—
A cage-but ill supply-
The teeming field-the dewy grass-
The temple of the sky!

No more thou build'st thy little bower,
As wont in days gone by,

When Spring unveils the virgin flower
To make the zephyrs sigh!

A captive midst the dull turmoil
Of crowds to lucre given,

No more thou'lt cheer the peasant's toil,

And lead his thoughts to Heaven!

GORDON'S HOSPITAL.

Is it not a most strange and unaccountable circumstance, that the very grave of the most distinguished of the benefactors of Bon-Accord is not so much as known at this comparatively short period after his death? The most important sources of information respecting the life of Robert Gordon being now sealed for ever, it were idle to indulge in fanciful conjecture on the subject; we shall, therefore, confine our notice to a record of the few facts which we are able to furnish from our own knowledge, or to gather from other quarters.

Robert Gordon is supposed to have been born about the year 1665. His father, Arthur Gordon, was an advocate of some repute in Edinburgh, and ninth son of Robert Gordon of Straloch, the eminent geographer and antiquary. It is probable that the subject of this memoir received an education suitable to his situation and prospects in life. His father is said to have left him a patrimony of £1100

-a considerable sum in those days. This patrimony, it would appear, he had squandered away during a youth spent in thoughtless extravagance