Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung

In desarts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid,

That goodness Time's rude hand defies

That Virtue lives when Beauty dies t.

This closing stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, a poetical genius of high attainment, and of still more exquisite promise.

CLXXVIII.

LOVE WILL NOT BLOOM WHERE ENVY

BREATHES.

AIR-Gilderoy.

Love will not bloom where envy breathes;

It shuns ambition's rays,

And ne'er its beauteous tendrils wreathes,
Round hearts which avarice sways:-
Then come, my love, we'll fly the town,
And seek our mountain home,
Where, o'er the upland heather brown,
Free as the winds we'll roam.

There lightly bounds the vigorous roe,
The sky-lark carols high ;—

There chrystal streamlets ceaseless flow

In artless melody:

The purple heath-bell's fresh perfume

The daisy's heaven-ward eye

The waving fern-the golden broom→→
All breathe of peace and joy.

There scowls, nor jealousy, nor pride→→ No worldly passions war→→

And, though the great our joys deride, Their own are meaner far:

Long, long shall love its flowers display
Beneath contentment's smile,

Where minds are innocently gay,
And hearts devoid of guile.

There is, when day's last shadows fly,
And no observer near;

'Neath memory's retrospective eye,

A secret rapture in a sigh

A pleasure in a tear.

There is, when hush'd is every sound,
The world absorb'd in sleep;

When peaceful silence reigns around,
A charm in pensive mood profound,
To sit alone and weep.

Then come, now bustling day is o'er,
And tranquil hours appear,

Peace to my wounded heart restore,
And let experience taste once more
The pleasure of a tear.

CLXXX.

THE LORD'S MARIE *.

The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks

Up wi' a gowden kame,

And she has put on her net-silk hose,

And awa to the tryste has gane;

* This truly excellent old song, was procured by the Editor of the Re. liques of Burns, from Mrs. Copeland of Dalbeatie, in Galloway, by whose exertions many specimens of the Caledonian Muse, of unquestionable merit, have been rescued from oblivion. It is founded, says Mrs. Copeland, on a

O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks,

And saft, saft on her brow;

Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip,
And I kiss'd it aff, I trow!

O whare gat ye that leal maiden,
Sae jimpy lac'd and sma'?

O whare gat ye that young damsel,
Wha dings our lasses a'?

O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass,
Wi' heaven in her e'e?

O here's se drap o' the damask wine ;-
Sweet maiden, will ye pree ?*

Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck,
Twist wi' the satin twine,

But ruddie, ruddie grew her hause,

While she supp'd the bluid-red wine.

• Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, Wha wears the gowden kame ;

This night will mony drink thy health,

And kend na wha to name.'

traditional story of a daughter of Lord Maxwell of Nithsdale accom. panying, in disguise, a peasant to a rustic dancing tryste. "The Lord's daughter sae gay," was discovered through the disguise of her rustic habili ments. Tradition places the song at the Revolution, 1688. The language is more modern, but the ideas belong to that period. It is one of those happy productions, which keep a lasting hold of the mind by their enticing tale, and simple dramatic narration; indeed, the simplicity of our lyrics, their broad humour, their vivid description, and their strong touches of native feeling and sensibility, make a lasting impression on the heart. They are perhaps the fairest any nation can boast, and will survive amid the wreck of those which society tramples down in its progress.