"And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace "The clue to my secret lurking place."

Away she ran-and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

And young Lovell cried, "Oh where dost thou hide? 'I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night! and they sought her next day!
And they sought her in vain when a week pass'd away!
In the highest-the lowest-the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly—but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;

And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle-they raised the lid-
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
Oh! sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.

It closed with a spring!-and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb!

William Motherwell.

{

Born 1797
Died 1835.

WAS born at Glasgow, and when yet young was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk in Paisley. In 1819 he connected himself with a magazine, and contributed some pieces of poetry to it. In 1827, as the fruit of several years' labour, he published a collection of "Scottish Ballads," ancient and modern. He became after this successively the editor of the "Paisley Magazine," "Paisley Advertiser," and "Glasgow Courier;" in the editorship of the latter newspaper he continued till his death. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his own poems. He was busy cbtaining materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was cut off by apoplexy in 1835.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The love of life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,

May weel be black gin Yule;

个

But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cool.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we loved ilk ither weel,

'Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time!-sad time !-twa bairns at schule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To lear ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,

What our wee heads could think.

When baith bent down owre ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,

Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said,
We cleek'd thegither hame ?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays

The schule then skaled at noon

When we ran aff to speel the braes-
The broomy braes o' June?

The throssil whistled in the wood,

The burn sung to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe aboon the burn,

For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

Herbert Knowles.

Born 1798

Died 1817.

A NATIVE of Canterbury, whose early promise was cut short by death in his nineteenth year. The following stanzas were published in the "Quar terly Review," and soon obtained a wide circulation.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three taber nacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-MATT. xvii. 4

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

In a smali narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain;

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.

Robert Gilfillan.

Born 1798

Died 1850.

A NATIVE of Dunfermline, he was for some time a clerk in Leith, and subsequently collector of poors-rates there.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

OH! why left I my hame?

Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
Bnt I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,
The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn
Nor song of reapers heard

Amang the yellow corn:
For the tyrant's voice is here
And the wail o' slaverie;
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!