LINES ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF LEONARD BRIGHT.

H

Few were his years those letters tell ;
His will be done, all must be well;
No wordling's joys, no sorrow's pain,
For him all these were made in vain,
Or pass'd away for ever.

His father's fame shall sound along
Where future generations throng,
But all which earth shall have of him
Is that small grave with marble brim
On Orme's high rocky crest.

The heart that loves the people's right
Shall kindle at the name of Bright,
For holier far than lordly crown

His noble deeds shall still go down
To history's latest page.

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MY MONODY; OR, THE SONG OF THE BEE.

MY MONODY; OR, THE SONG OF THE BEE.

WHEN summer hours are sweet and fair,

Although I'm but a bee,

And drowsy gladness fills the air

I sing my Monody.

I roam about from gem to gem
That decks the mead or tree,

And as I'm dipping into them
I buzz my Monody.

Awhile to lawns 'neath cloudless skies,

With wanton wing I flee;

Those living flowers, bright butterflies,

All know my Monody.

As woods are lovely and serene,

And birds are full of glee,

I join amidst the leafy green

My lowly Monody.

MY MONODY; OR, THE SONG OF THE BEE.

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On flowers which scent the happy bride "Tis all the same to me,

Or spring the grassy grave beside,

I chant my Monody.

Alone upon the heathy hills,

Where not an eye can see→

I linger till my chalice fills,
And hum my Monody.

I know no trills of music grand,

Still less of melody,

The only tune I understand

Is my own Monody.

Then when the sun dips from the west,

And sinks behind the sea-
With store of nectar, home to rest,

I sound my Monody.

The world they say, is full of care;
I doubt if that may be,

Each one some bounteous joy doth share,
And I my Monody.

"FAITH AND REASON,"

Suggested by the Painting so called, by Sir J. N. Paton.

By life's rough vale I sat me down

A moment mortal scenes to scan;
The pause was brief, for dangers frown,

And rest there's none on earth for man,
Till, toss'd by many a fitful wave,
He nears the slumbers of the grave.

I gazed right on across the waste,
No trodden winding pathway found,
But pointed rocks by moss embrac'd
Bestrewed the dank and barren ground,
'Mid gloomy hills of rugged line,
Upheaved from some chaotic mine.

No light but semi-darkness shed

Its dismal mantle round the plain,
Except a single star o'erhead

To look or hope for life were vain;
An awful silence reigned supreme,
Like some unpeopled frightful dream.

I look'd again—not distant far—

Two forms of human-kind drew near, The one out-pointed to the star,

The other lost 'twixt hope and fear; Yet slowly on 'midst staggering shocks They climbed alone the sharpen'd rocks.

Well clad in mail of polished steel,
His visor raised upon his brow,
The downcast eye his cares reveal,

For that one ever-present "Now ;"
With spear-like staff in constant need,
Each doubtful step requires his heed.

He was most human-like and strong,

Well known as "Reason," I've heard tell

He often talks so loud and long,

You really think he reasons well;

But no, alas! he cannot guide;
Hath he no helper by his side?

Yes, not alone, oh, not alone

Did he that troubl'd journey tread, A form illum'd from glory's throne

Points to that holy star o'erhead; The star of hope-the life of grace For fallen ones of earthly race.