THE COVENANTER'S HEATHER-BED.

This poem, suggested by the picture representing the Temptation of St Anthony, by Teniers, exemplifies the different aspect which the same subject and situation would assume when clothed in the images supplied by Scottish Puritanism.

A STORMY night and dark, had closed a gloomy day,

And couched upon the heath a Covenanter lay;

His feet were tired and damp, with the clays of many a hill, And in his sleeping ear the wind was roaring still;

When the powers of darkness thronged with persevering spite, To tempt his weary soul mid the visions of the night.

And first a black one came, and said, with scornful eye, ‘Come, Jonathan, get up, and your merits let us try ; If you be strong in faith, here take me by the hand, Pull up while I draw down,—we'll see who best can stand;— When flames break out beneath us, and yawning earth is riven, "Twill then be brought to proof what hold you have on heaven.

'You boldly walk by day, while sunshine warms the ground; The breeze cheers up your heart, and the wild bee hums around But when our dark hour comes, your songs and vaunts decrease And, trusting to your works, you fain would sleep in peace;― But if in works you trust, I have witnesses behind,

Who can speak of former deeds, and recall them to your mind.'

And then straightway the fiend for another fiend made room,
Who carried in his hand a sprig of yellow broom,
And said, "This broom was cut in that glen of gowans fine,
Where you were wont in youth to drive a herd of kine;
For its crystal brook you deemed that glen beyond compare,
But more for a blue-eyed girl, who also herded there.

• When with her you would sit, one plaid encircled both,
You called yourself her true love to her you pledged your troth;
But when you grew a man, and was master of some sheep,
And saw some farmers' daughters, you left her there to weep;

Among the lonely knolls her heart sobbed out its pain,
And 'twas said her silken snood ne'er tied so well again.’

The one who next appeared, a tattered bible bore,

And said, 'when first in youth you left your mother's door,
With swimming eyes she came, this book she bade you take,
And keep it as her gift, and read it for her sake;

But scarce two days were past, ere at a drunken fair
You lost it in the streets, to be soiled and trampled there.'

The next who came to taunt, a piece of money showed,
And said, 'When paying last a neighbour what you owed,
He was an aged man, and somewhat thick of sight,

And you therefore slid this coin among others that were bright;
But the edge was partly worn, and the brass that glared behind
Disgraced its silver coat, like a secret sinner's mind.'

Tormented thus and stung by a many a bitter word,

"The last,' he cries, 'is false !' and starts and grasps his sword. Around on every side his furious strokes he plies,

Among their flitting shapes, among their glaring eyes; But laughing, at his rage, on sooty wings they fled, And a new rattling shower assailed his heather-bed. Blackwood's Magazine.

LOVE.

NAY, pray thee, let me weep, for tears
Are Love's most fitting offerings ;—
weep his smiles, I'll weep his sighs,
But, more than all, I'll weep his wings.

I'll

I'll weep his smiles, for first they taught

My young heart what his sighs could be ;
I'll weep his wings, for they have borne
Away the truth you plighted me.

Literary Gazette.

STANZAS

WRITTEN BY THE SEA SIDE.

ONE evening as the Sun went down,
Gilding the mountains bare and brown,
I wandered on the shore;

And such a blaze o'er ocean spread,
And beauty on the meek earth shed,

I never saw before!

I was not lonely ;-dwellings fair
Were scattered 'round and shining there ;-
Gay groups were on the green

Of children, wild with reckless glee,
And parents that could child-like be
With them and in that scene.

And on the sea, that looked of gold,
Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold
Glided, and yet seemed still;
While sounds rose in the quiet air,
That mingling made sweet music there,
Surpassing Minstrel's skill !—

The breezy murmur from the shore,—
Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er
Alike by sire and child,-

The whistle shrill,-the broken song,-
The far off flute-notes lingering long,—
The lark's strain rich and wild.

I looked, I listened, and the spell
Of Music and of Beauty fell

So radiant on my heart,

That scarcely durst I really deem
What yet I would not own a dream,

Lest dream-like, it depart.

'Twas sunset in the world around;-
And, looking inwards, so I found
'Twas sun-set in the soul;

Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there,
But musings sweet, and visions fair,
In placid beauty stole.

But moods like these, the human mind,
Though seeking oft, may seldom find,
Or, finding, force to stay ;-
As dews upon the drooping flower,
That having shone their little hour,
Dry up-or fall away.

But though all pleasures take their flight,
Yet some will leave memorials bright
For many an after year;

This sunset, that dull night will shade,—

These visions, which must quickly fade,
Will half-immortal memory braid
For me, when far from here!

Literary Gazette.

M. J. J.

IMPROMPTU

TO LADY HOLLAND ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF BOX.

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day,

To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay

A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

THE DYING POET'S FAREWELL.

Animula vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in locâ?

O THOU wondrous arch of azure,
Sun, and starry plains immense !
Glories that astound the gazer

By their dread magnificence!-
O thou ocean, whose commotion
Awes the proudest to devotion,
Must I must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die !-

O ye birds, whose matin chorus

Taught me to rejoice and bless! And ye beasts, whose voice sonorous

Swelled the hymn of thankfulness; Learned leisure, and the pleasure, Of the muse, my dearest treasure, Must I must I from ye fly,

Bid ye

all adieu-and die!

O domestic ties endearing,

Which still chain my soul to earth!
O ye friends, whose converse cheering
Winged the hours with social mirth!
Songs of gladness, chasing sadness,
Wine's delight without its madness,
Must I must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die!