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Nature's fair rind, the Poet doth ignite

With his soul's flame; subjectively he sees

Form, force, and law, and deep analogies And all her beauty blazes in his light.

SWEET-WOODRUFF. A Poet true to Art and God, not read In his life-space; but who when gone receives

Full meed, is like sweet-woodruff, in whose leaves Men find small perfume until they be dead.

She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings, Till o'er her beat the pulsings of thy wings.

-Blow, Wild March Wind.

ROSES. But a cry, as of pain, arose in Eden A sharp cry, from the lips of Eve, embower'd 'Mid her roses, she, plucking milky blossoms, Felt thorns twain, on a sudden, smite her finger; Sharp thorns, sharper than spears, the first in Eden; For the roses were thornless, smooth as willow, Ere her sinfulness. Blood-drops stain'd the petals, Erst as white as the hellebore in winter; And she, musing, beheld a wondrous marvel – Where the beads of her blood the leaves ensanguin'd, Lo! red roses were born, as joys in sorrow, A rose, red as the nut-tree bloom in spring-days.

- The Birth of the Red-Rose.

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O wild flowers of my motherland!

Gems of the woodland wide,
Companions in our burden'd ways,

Meek watchers by our side;
What tender thoughts, from birth to age,

Within your petals hide.
The human heart is wayward, strange,

Uncertain flow its springs,
But ever bound by simplest ties,

And link'd to simplest things;
A song — a lock of hair -- a flower,
Will touch its tenderest strings.

A Golden Day.

The sense that I have nought to do

Steals sweetly over me;
Nothing to do for one green month,

Nothing to do — but be -
To lie full length on grassy slope

In sight of summer sea.
To weary worker forced to seek

The feathers for his nest;
To toiling, moiling, busy ones,

How good a thing is rest!
The Peace that falls from Angels' wings
On eyelids of the blest.

- Ibid.
Labor makes a king of man,
And crowns him every day.

- Ibid.
By the weed-strewn, brown, desolate reaches,
Lonely, and half broken-hearted,

We met, and we parted, By the weed-strewn, brown, desolate reaches.

- Still Looking.

ANEMONE. Blow, wild March wind! In hollows of the lea, In copses low, thy bride awaiteth thee The timid, saint-like, white anemone.

MEMORY. Upon the mirror-surface of the mind The Beautiful imprints itself, in shades And colors of its own, and thenceforth lives, Through passing days and all the weighted years A precious picture of the memory.

- Memory Pictures. WILD FLOWERS. I love to hold you by your slender stems, And learn the golden lore within your eyes; Or, when ye swing your censers as ye pray At eventide, upon my spirit's ear To catch the voicings of your trembling choirs; Inhale your incense as it soars to God, And feel I have a part with you. 'Tis good To trace His impress on your veinèd leaves, To track the filmy foldings of a rose, Or gaze in silence on a daisy's fringe.

- Wild Flowers.

BEAUTY. O eyes! where dwelt the witchery of power, Dark eyes and deep that beam'd from out a bower Of lashes curl'd like stamens of a flower. O hair of night! not flowing light and free As wintry tresses of the birchen tree, But serpent-wound and braided royally. O form! the beauty of the Greek inbred, Such gracious curves of brow, and lip, and chin, And stately throat, and fair full breasts wherein The Love-god's self might rest his drowsy head.

- A Memory.

SILENCE. The wheel is silent, for the stream is dry, The dead leaves drift, the green leaf turns to brown, And on her grave the quiet stars look down.

- A Memory.



HE sweet and plaintive lyric which preserves

the name of Gilfillan takes its place among our standard songs as one of the best, if not the best of its kind. Its author was born in Dunfermline, in 1798, in very humble circumstances.

After learning the trade of a cooper in Leith, he became a clerk in a wine-merchant's office, and in 1837, was appointed collector of poor-rates for the burgh of Leith. He held this appointment till his death, which took place in 1850. Two editions of his poems have been published; but though some others of them are well written, none comes up to the standard of “Why Left I My Hame." J. R.

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Tune -"My Ain Countrie."

In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted an' sang
By the warm ingle-side, or the wild braes amang;
Our lads busked braw, an' our lasses looked fine,
An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to

Oh, where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne ?

Oh, why left I my hame?

Why did I cross the deep ? Oh, why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore,

And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink

O' my ain countrie!

In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale,
Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;
An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,
As it trotted alang through the valley or plain-
Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again?

The palm-tree waveth high,

And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom

Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang

O' my ain countrie!

In the days o'langsyne there were feasting an'glee,
Wi' pride in ilk heart, an' joy in ilk ee;
An' the auld, 'mang the happy, their eild seemed

to tyne, It was your stoup the nicht, an' the morn it was

mine; Oh, the days o' langsyne! — Oh, the days o' lang


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Though dark and dreary lowers the night,

Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright

Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee.

-Fare Thee Well.

YOUTH. I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For the blythe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the

tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

The Happy Days o'Youth.

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