"And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride;
And the wave of their crimson mantles.
And the golden crown of pride?
"Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there?
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?"
Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe,
No maiden was by their side!

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stair way,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall.
Such an old moustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeons
In the round tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you for ever,
Yes, for ever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Rev. Robert Montgomery.

{

Born 1807.

Died 1855.

LITTLE is known of his early history, and he first appears before the pub. lic in his nineteenth year, as the author of "The Inspector," a weekly publication. After the publication of some minor pieces, in 1828 appeared "The Omnipresence of the Deity," and in 1829, " Satan," &c., both of which had considerable popularity. Encouraged by his success as an author, Robert Montgomery studied for the church, and was ordained in 1835 curate of Whittington, in Shropshire. He removed in 1836 to Percy Street Chapel, London, and from thence to St Jude's Episcopal Church, Glasgow. He was very popular there, and drew large audiences. In 1843 he returned to Percy Street Chapel, where he continued till his death, on 3d December 1855. Besides the poems already referred to, he is a voluminous theological writer.

FROM SATAN."

THEN, is there not a spirit-world?—The blind
May question, and the mocking idiot laugh,
But in her, round her, wheresoe'er she moves,
Mortality might reap immortal faith,

And feel what cannot in the flesh be known-
In the wild mystery of Earth and Air,

Sun, moon, and star, and the unslumbering sea,
There is a meaning and a power, commixt
For thought, and for undying fancy tuned.
And by thy panting for the unattained

On earth; by longings which no language speaks;

By the dread torture of o'ermastering doubt;
By thirst for beauty, such as eye ne'er saw,
And yet, is ever mirror'd on the mind;
By Love, in her rich heavenliness arrayed;
By Guilt and Conscience-that terrific pair
Who make the dead to mutter from their tombs,
Or colour nature with the hues of hell,
By all the fire and frenzy of the soul,
And Revelation's everlasting voice-Oh man
Thou art immortal as thy Maker is!

Now is mine hour, the hour of conflict come,
When the dark future over nature frowns
Like destiny; now Spirit is herself
Again, and Thought, within her cell retired,
Doth hold dim converse with eternal things

James Ballantine.

Born 1808.
Died 1877.

AN Edinburgh poet, and author of some of the most exquisite songs in the Scottish dialect ever written. In 1856 he collected and published them in one volume. Mr Ballantine is also author of some amusing prose pictures of Scottish life. As a master house-painter he gained great credit by his stained-glass transparencies, and the art displayed in house decoration.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS.

CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,

Though pressed an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye'll win through,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles, nae doubt

ye've been,

Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae

your een,

Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store

for you,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud

less sky

Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parch'd and dry,

The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring

anew,

And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel owre proud and hie,

An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,

Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence

or how,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase,
Glowerin in the fire wi' his wee round face;
Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe-what sees he there?
Ha! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air!

His wee chubby face, an' his tousy curly pow,
Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' lowe,
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glow'rin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,
He sees little sodgers pu'in' them a' doun;
Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, bleezin' wi' a flare,
Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
He's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,
There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauid;
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak him auld
His brow is brent sae braid, so pray that Daddy Care
Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light;
But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by Night
Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare,

Hearts are broken-heads are turned-wi' castles in the air.

The Hon. Mrs Norton. (Born 1808

Died 1877. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN was born in 1808. She is granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. From her earliest years she had a taste for versification, and while in her teens appeared before the public as an author. In 1827 she married the Hon. George C. Norton, now a police magistrate of London. The marriage was an unhappy one, and in 1836 a separation took place by mutual consent. Mrs Norton is the author of numerous poetical works displaying great beauty and force of expression. In March 1877 she married Sir William StirlingMaxwell, but only lived a few months thereafter.

THE WIDOWED MOTHER.

OFT since that hour, in sadness I retrace
My childhood's vision of thy calm, sweet face;
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded
In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe;
Thy dark, expressive eyes, all dim and clouded
By that deep wretchedness the lonely know;
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task,
Conn'd by unwilling lips with listless air:
Hoarding thy means lest future need might ask
More than the widow's pittance then could spare.
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay,
Enduring sorrow not by fits and starts,
But the long self-denial day by day,

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts!
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain,

The young rebellious spirits crowding round,
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for the pain,
And could not comfort-yet had power to wound.

Ah! how my selfish heart, which since has grown
Familiar with deep trials of its own,

With riper judgment, looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time,
And darkens every folly into crime.