THE SONG OF MARION.

Not yet, not yet. I thought I saw
The foldings of his plaid.
Alas! 'twas but the mountain pine,
That cast a fitful shade.

The moon is o'er the highest crag,
It gilds each tower and tree,

But Wallace comes not back to bless

The hearts in Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet.

Is that his plume

I see beneath the hill?

Ah, no! 'tis but the waving fern:

The heath is lonely still.

Dear Wallace, day-star of my soul,

Thy Marion weeps for thee; She fears lest evil should betide The guard of Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. I heard a sound,

A distant crashing din;

"Tis but the night-breeze bearing on

The roar of Corie Lin.

The gray-haired harper cannot rest,

He keeps his watch with me;

He kneels he prays that God may shield

The laird of Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. My heart will break:

Where can the brave one stay?

I know 'tis not his own free will
That keeps him thus away.
The lion may forsake his lair,
The dove its nest may flee,

But Wallace loves too well, to leave
His bride and Ellerslie.

Not yet, not yet. The moon goes down,
And Wallace is not here;

And still his sleuth-hound howls, and still
I shed the burning tear.

Oh, come, my Wallace, quickly come,
As ever, safe and free:

Come, or thy Marion soon will find
A grave in Ellerslie!

THE SEXTON.

"MINE is the fame most blazoned of all
Mine is the goodliest trade;

Never was banner so wide as the pall,
Nor sceptre so feared as the spade.”

This is the lay of the sexton gray

King of the churchyard he

While the mournful knell of the tolling bell Chimes in with his burden of glee.

He dons a doublet of sober brown,

And a hat of slouching felt;

The mattock is over his shoulder thrown,
The heavy keys clank at his belt.

The dark damp vault now echoes his tread,
While his song rings merrily out;
With a cobweb canopy over his head,
And coffins falling about.

His foot may crush the full-fed worms,
His hand may grasp a shroud,
His gaze may rest on skeleton forms,
Yet his tones are light and loud.

He digs the grave, and his chant will break
As he gains a fathom deep
"Whoever lies in the bed I make,
I warrant will soundly sleep."

He piles the sod, he raises the stone,
He clips the cypress tree;

But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone
No fellowship holds he.

For the sexton gray is a scaring loon

His name is linked with death.

The children at play, should he cross their way, Will pause with fluttering breath.

They herd together, a frightened host,

And whisper with lips all white, "See, see, 'tis he, that sends the ghost To walk the world at night."

The old men mark him, with fear in their eye,
At his labor mid skulls and dust;
They hear him chant, "The young may die,
But we know the aged must."

The rich will frown, as his ditty goes on

66

Though broad your lands may be,

Six narrow feet to the beggar I mete,

And the same shall serve for ye."

The ear of the strong will turn from his song,
And Beauty's cheek will pale;

"Out, out," cry they, "what creature would stay, To list thy croaking tale!"

Oh! the sexton gray is a mortal of dread;

None like to see him come near;

The orphan thinks on a father dead,

The widow wipes a tear.

All shudder to hear his bright axe chink,
Upturning the hollow bone;

No mate will share his toil or his fare,
He works, he carouses alone,

By night, or by day, this, this is his lay: "Mine is the goodliest trade;

Never was banner so wide as the pall,

Nor sceptre so feared as the spade."

NATURE'S GENTLEMAN.

Whom do we dub as gentlemen? The knave, the fool, the brute

If they but own full tithe of gold and wear a courtly

suit!

The parchment scroll of titled line, the riband at the

knee,

Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree: But nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly

born,

And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to

scorn;

She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half

divine,

And cries exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine ?"

She may not spend her common skill about the outward

part,

But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart?

She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to

illume

The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom.

Should fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound,

He shares it with a bounteous hand and scatters bless

ings round.