Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary time!

For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from woe;
The holy pride of high intent,

The glory of a life well-spent.

When, earth's affections nearly o'er,

With Peace behind, and Faith before,
Thou renderest up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn,
From bands of sister seraphim,

Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye

Open in Immortality.

PROFESSOR WILSON, 1785-1854.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

IF Fortune with a smiling face

Strew roses on our way,

When shall we stoop to pick them up?
To-day, my love, to-day.

But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,

When shall we grieve-if grieve we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those who've wrong'd us own their faults,

And kindly pity pray,

When shall we listen and forgive?

To-day, my love, to-day.
But if stern Justice urge rebuke,

And warmth from memory borrow,
When shall we chide-if chide we dare?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those to whom we owe a debt
Are harm'd unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just?
To-day, my love, to-day.

But if our debtor fail our hope,

And plead his ruin thorough,
When shall we weigh his breach of faith?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If Love, estranged, should once again.
His genial smile display,

When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But if he would indulge regret,

Or dwell with bygone sorrow,

When shall we weep-if weep we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys
The minutes will not stay;
We've always time to welcome them
To-day, my love, to-day.

But care, resentment, angry words,
And unavailing sorrow

Come far too soon, if they appear

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

CHARLES MACKAY, 1814

WINTER PROMPTINGS.

THE days they are snell, and the nights they are drear,
The wark it is scarce, and the meal it is dear; •
So ye wha hae aught in your bicker to spare,
Come gie your puir neighbours your ower-lipping share.

The sheep hae their stells on the hoary hill taps,
The cattle hae thick touzy hides for their haps;
But the half-naked puir, scant o' fuel and meal,
Need britherly helping and britherly feel.

The bauld little robin haps in at your door,

The pawky wee sparrow will peck aff your floor;

But the heaven-soaring lark 'mang the cauld drift will

dee

Afore he'll come cowrin' your moolins to pree.

So in the dark dens o' the dingy Auld Toun,
Are puir honest folks wha wad rather drap doun
Afore they wad tell o' their wants or their waes-
Afore they wad beg either parritch or claes.

Then trow nae the puir wha's loud plaint meets your

ear

Are those sairest pinch'd, in a winter sae drear;
For shame, honest shame, aft will rise in the breast,
And poortith's mair silent the mair she is prest.

Then share ye your bickers, and share ye your claes,
And help ye the needy in these dowie days,
And while ye feed birds on your lown window sill,
Spare a crust for your neighbour mair desolate still.
JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808—

WIDOWED MEMORIES.

LONE, by my solitary hearth,

Whence peace hath fled,

And home-like joys and innocent mirth

Are banished;

Silent and sad, I linger to recall

The memory of all

In thee, dear partner of iny cares, I lost;

Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys the

world can boast.

My home--why did I say my home?

Now have I none,

Unless thou from the grave again couldst come,

Beloved one!

My home was in thy trusting heart,

Where'er thou wert;

My happy home in thy confiding breast,
Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest.

I know not if thou wast most fair

And best of womankind;

Or whether earth yet beareth fruits more rare

Of heart and mind;

TO ME, I know, thou wert the fairest,

Kindest, dearest,

That Heaven to man in mercy ever gave,

And more than man from Heaven desired to have.

Never from thee, sweet wife,

Came word or look awry,

Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife
For mastery:

Calm and controll'd thy spirit was, and sure
So to endure:

My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle will
Compell'd my good, withholding from me ill.

No art of selfishness

Thy generous nature knew;

Thy life all love, thy bliss the power to bless ;
Constant and true,