THE STONE OF WITNESS.

BY A DREAMER.

[The ancient usage which is here glanced at, consisted in parting friends erecting a cairn or stone-beacon, at which they feasted for the last time, and thence separated on their respective routes. This memorial-heap then became an enduring witness of their plighted amity. We have a beautiful illustration of the custom in the history of Jacob and Laban.-Genesis xxxi. 44-49.]

"Roll up the firm eternal rocks, and raise a cairn on high

On this wild mountain-range, whose peaks swell proudly to the sky;
Here, in the face of heaven's broad light, we pledge our faith and love,
Our witnesses these giant-forms that sternly frown above.

"As all unmoved through rain and snows this beacon will abide
As idly the cold winter's blast shall beat against its side;
As tranquilly 'twill smile beneath the luring summer ray,
Nor move in gentle dalliance if wooing west winds play :

;

"So lasting may our loves remain through many a growing year;
So may they live the coming storms of Agony and Fear;
So stand they the deceitful test of Fortune's glozing wiles,
When heartless strangers throng around with flattery and smiles.
"And when in other, altered, days we come to linger here
With palsied limbs and withered hairs, in life decayed and sere;
Oh, may the pile we raise to-day start kindly to our view,
And the warm current of our youth in our weak veins renew!"

So fondly spake the Friends of Old in their low parting hour,
And found a solace in this act redeeming in its power:

The mountain-heap unmoved would stand, despite the tempest's rage,
A sign of their soul's covenant-enduring age to age.

And we have we no Token-stone, to mark our faithful trust
In those whose fondness we have found for each occasion just-
Who in our happy hours of peace rejoicingly would share,
Who bore with us the heavy load of misery and care?

The hearth-stone of our early homes is our Memorial true-
Beneath each roof-tree it is placed in our beloved's view;
It witnesseth all household scenes of gladness or of grief,
It treasures up their history for weary hours' relief.

The glad partaker of our joys, when warm the ruddy blaze
Of the Yule faggot lights up high the chamber with its rays,
While peals the merry children's laugh, or trills the happy song,
And jocund games or fairy tales the festive eves prolong.

The lone spectator of our griefs when Desolation comes,
And those we love are borne away to rest in chilly tombs,

And we cast around, in speechless grief, our eager questioning eyes
On silent rooms and vacant chairs-for absent images.

Oh, ye whose home is yet untouched by Death's dividing hand,
Revere the friends who in it dwell, your happy household band;
Nor pain them by your coldness now, whose memories when gone
Accusingly will visit you from that Attesting Stone.

November, 1845.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

BY J. FULLARTON

From distant climes young Roland of the vale
Returning, sought once more his kindred hearth:
Ah, who shall bid the way-worn traveller hail,
While hastening to the home that gave him birth?
No sire, no brother springs in gladness forth

To meet the sun-scorched wanderer's coming tread :
One human breast alone remains on earth

Whereon he sighs to lean his aching head—

One fond, maternal heart, that deems him with the dead.

Ah, who can tell what deep emotions start
What mingled feelings of delight and pain-
When severed bosoms meet, no more to part,
While joy, grief, love, and fear alternate reign?
That matron-dare she trust her wavering brain?
Falls on her neck her Roland's burning tear?
'Tis he-the loved, the lost restored again

Back to her arms-her all on earth that's dear! For this her soul o'erlived long anguish, doubt, and fear.

"Ah, whither hast thou roamed, my lonely son?
Long years have fled since last I looked on thee:
Alas! how pale thy cheek, and wo-begone—
How changed-how sad thou comest again to me!
Thy brow, in youth from sorrow ever free,

Is darkly shadowed with the clouds of care,
And bent in gloom, while-oh, I weep to see-

Thy scorched and wasted form, and blanching hair, As if the hand of time had touched those ringlets fair.

"Dost thou remember when thou lovedst to climb
Our dark blue hills that swell against the sky-
To watch the rainbow span yon arch sublime,
Till rapture beamed in thy young gladdened eye?
Thou lovedst to mark the torrent rush from high
Down the long valley, foaming to the shore;
Thou smil'dst to hear the muttering thunder nigh,
And sought the voice of nature more and more,
As woke that voice in storms along the billows hoar."

"Oh, canst thou ask, fond parent, why the blood Hath ceased as wont to mantle in this cheek?

One burning passion poured its fiery flood

Along my heart, and left it faint and weak.

Nought of that passion's wreck my lips would speak-
Nought of the throbbing ruin left behind,
Whose desolation sent me forth to seek

Food for the feverish dreamings of the mind,
In ocean, earth, and sky-in sun, and stream, and wind.

"For heaven's sublimest works alone could still The longings of a soul that knew not rest; That fled the loveliness of glen and hill,

To walk in clouds along the mountain's crest.
Free as the eagle from his cliff-borne nest,

O'er earth's and ocean's fields 'twas mine to roam;
Where'er rude Grandeur bared his shaggy breast,
Or stern sublimity had fixed a home,

Mid roar of wave and rock-mid thunder, cloud, and foam.

"And dear nature spreads her boundless charms to all
Who trace her beauties with untiring eye;
The moon-lit vale, the brook, the waterfall,
Invite the tranquil soul to linger nigh;

But mine hath caught fresh rapture from on high,
As o'er heaven's arch the thunder peal has rolled;
And mine hath mingled where the storm-mists fly

O'er Alpine heights-o'er cliff and cataract bold,
Which nought in mortal form unshrinking may behold.

"And oft I've strayed beside the frowning steep
When rushed the winds of midnight down the sky,
And heard their voices rouse the moaning deep,
Till rock and billow spoke in fierce reply;
And when the elements warred wild and high,
My bounding spirit thrilled with strange delight,
And swelling as the tempest's breath came nigh,
Burst madly forth in her impetuous flight,

To blend amidst the storm that rent the vault of night.

"Or wandering thence with faltering steps, I've prest
The graves of empires sunk by war and crime;
'Mid fallen cities stood with aching breast,

While tracing mournfully the march of time
Steal on where man's proud genius rose sublime,
And reared on high the trophied works af art,
O'er which alone the ivy deigns to climb

Midst mouldering towers, that warn the gazer's heart To shun dark rapine's path and war's unsparing dart.

"Yet 'midst the vast, the wonderful, the wild,

My lonely bosom ever turned to thee,

And sighed to hear thy accents bless thy child,

Whose soul strange phantoms led by land and sea.

Alone, at last, I seek the sheltering tree

Which shields the hearth that nursed my gladsome youth!

There let my tears flow unrestrained and free,

And blend with thine, for thou alone canst sooth

The pangs that dimmed my dreams of loveliness and truth."

SPARE ME YET AWHILE.

BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY.

Withered flower within my garden,
The place thou makest all forlorn
With thy broken limbs out-spreading,
With thy leaflets jagged and torn.
When from earth my hand would rive thee,
Forth to fling, abandoned, vile;

Closer thou clingest and closer, pleading,
"Spare me spare me yet awhile."

Mutely, thus, thou didst reproach me ;
"Has thy memory fled with summer,
That thou now would'st dispossess me,
Fling me from thee with dishonour.
My fragrant breath thou hast enjoyed it,
My bloom might wandering eyes beguile;
Oh! if the past may fail to move thee,
Yet spare me-spare me yet awhile.
"All things lovely in their season,
Bloom not ere the appointed time;
Sleeping within these withered leaflets,
My beauty waits the opening prime.
Spare me for the spring in-cometh,
Soon the sun with sultriest smile,
Woos me, wins me to thy pleasure,
Then spare me-spare me yet awhile.

"Many weeds of human nature,
Ragged, poor, and vile as I am,
Spring again in glorious feature,

If once more you spare them, try them. Fallen sister, brother broken,

Lost to fortune, lost by guile,

Can'st behold them, heartless, tearless,
Nor spare them-spare them yet awhile.
"Say, with thy secret heart communing,
Where is the produce of thy spring;
Where is the ripened fruit thy manhood
Promised still-still failed to bring.
Go-bethink thee of thy duty,
Nor thy fellow-weed revile;
Forgetful of the hand that holds thee,

Yet spares thee-spares thee yet awhile.

"Spare me then-my opening blossoms Day by day, shall silent woo thee;

Like a sudden burst of sun-light

My full-blown strength shall seem unto thee.

At early morn, and dewy even,

Sweet as breath of spicy isle,

My fragrance grateful shall pursue thee,
Spare me-oh! spare me yet awhile.

"Then-unto thy long-loved lady,
Dedicate my crowning blossom;
May she with delight receive it,
May she hide it in her bosom.

THE new year unfolds its portals. Destiny stands between the glowing clouds of the rising sun, and the funeral pyre of the departed year. For what wishest thou, Natalie ?

"Not for joy. Alas! nothing but its black thorns have ever remained within my heart, for the rose-leaves soon fell, and their odour was exhaled. The brightest sun but heralded the wildest tempest, and the light which seemed to glitter on my path was but the reflection of the sword which the coming day was to plunge into my bosom. No, I ask not for joy, it makes the desiring heart so empty. Sorrow alone can fill it."

Destiny is portioning out futurity. What dost thou demand, Natalie ? "Not love. Oh, we press to our heart the thorny white rose of love till it bleeds, and the warm joy-tears which fall into its cup first become cold, and then dry up for ever! Is not love, in the morning of our life, bright and glowing as the aurora of heaven. But approach not that radiant atmosphere, it is formed out of clouds and tears. No, no; I wish not for love. Let me die of a nobler agony-let me fall beneath a loftier poison-tree than the myrtle." Thou art kneeling before destiny, Natalie. For what prayest thou? "Not for friendship. No. We all stand side by side upon hollow but unseen graves; and though our hands be twined together ever so firmly, though our hearts be knit together with the sufferings of many years, yet the slight vaulted roof will fall in. The pale one sinks down; and I stand alone in a cold, solitary life, beside a filled-up grave. No, no; but if the heart be indeed immortal when friend meets friend in the eternal world, then may the pulse throb with an undying love. Immortal eyes become dimmed with tears of joy, and the lips that can never move grow pale, murmur-Now I am thine, beloved one. Now let us love, for we can never more be parted."

Oh, thou forsaken Natalie, for what prayest thou, then, upon the earth? "For patience and the grave, for nothing more. But deny me not that, thou silent Destiny! Dry the eye, and then close it. Still the heart, and then break it! But, when the spirit wings her flight to a fairer heaven-when the new year opens in a purer world-when all again meet and love, then I will speak my wishes. Yet no, for then I shall be happy."

J. F. A. E.