Robert Browning.

Born 1812.

BORN at London in 1812, he was educated at the London University. He first appeared as an author in 1835. His poem "Paracelsus," then published, attracted general attention in the literary world. In 1837 he published "Strafford," a tragedy. This was followed by "Sordello," in In 1849 he published a collected edition of his smaller pieces. In the same year he married Miss Elizabeth Barrett, a well-known poetess, and from that time they resided chiefly on the Continent. His wife died in 1861,

1840.

EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead,
Sit and watch by her side an hour,
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think-
The shutters are shut, no light may pass,
Save two long rays through the hinges' chink.

Sixteen years old when she died !

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name-
It was not her time to love: besides,

Her life had many a hope and aim.

Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir-
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true;
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside ?

Professor Aytoun.

Born 1813.

BORN in Edinburgh in 1813, of a Fifeshire family, he was educated for the Scottish bar, to which he was admitted in 1840. In 1845 he was appointed Professor of Rhetorie and Belles Lettres in Edinburgh University. His poetical talents were early displayed. "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," his finest poems, were originally contributed to "Blackwood's Magazine." They were issued in a collected form in 1849. "Bothwell, a poem," appeared in 1856. The Professor was appointed by Lord Derby's Government, in 1852, Sheriff and Vice-Admiral of Orkney.

THE BURIED FLOWER.

IN the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmed sleep:

Oft I hear the angel voices

That have thrilled me long ago,-
Voices of my lost companions,
Lying deep beneath the snow.

Where are now the flowers we tended?
Withered, broken, branch and stem;
Where are now the hopes we cherished?
Scattered to the winds with them.

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!
Nursed in hope and reared in love,
Looking fondly ever upward

To the clear blue heaven above:

Smiling on the sun that cheered us,
Rising lightly from the rain,
Never folding up your freshness
Save to give it forth again:

Never shaken, save by accents
From a tongue that was not free,
As the modest blossom trembles
At the wooing of the bee.

O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon
All the days of faded youth,
All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth.

Sever'd-were it sever'd only

By an idle thought of strife,
Such as time may knit together;

Not the broken chord of life!

O my heart! that once so truly
Kept another's time and tune,-
Heart, that kindled in the morning,
Look around thee in the noon!

Where are they who gave the impulse
To thy earliest thought and flow?
Look across the ruined garden-
All are withered, dropped, or low!

A DEVOTED and talented minister of the Church of Scotland in Dundee, who wrote some religious poetry imbued with the deepest devotional feeling.

TO YONDER SIDE.

THE Cooling breath of evening woke

The waves of Galilee,

Till on the shore the waters broke

In softest melody.

"Now launch the bark," the Saviour cried,

The chosen twelve stood by,

"And let us cross to yonder side,

Where the hills are steep and high."

Gently the bark o'er the water creeps,
While the swelling sail they spread,
And the wearied Saviour gently sleeps,
With a pillow 'neath His head.

On downy bed the world seeks rest,
Sleep flies the guilty eye,

But he who leans on the Father's breast
May sleep when storms are nigh.

But soon the lowering sky grew dark
O'er Bashan's rocky brow,

The storm rushed down upon the bark,
And waves dashed o'er the prow.

The pale disciples trembling spake,
While yawned the watery grave,
"We perish, Master,-Master, wake!
Carest Thou not to save ?"

Calmly He rose, with sovereign will,
And hushed the storm to rest.

"Ye waves," He whispered, " Peace! be still!" They calmed like a pardoned breast.

So have I seen a fearful storm
O'er wakened sinner roll,
Till Jesus' voice, and Jesus' form
Said, "Peace, thou weary soul."

And now He bends His gentle eye
His wondering followers o'er,
"Why raise this unbelieving cry?
I said to yonder shore. "

When first the Saviour wakened me,
And showed me why he died,
He pointed o'er life's narrow sea,

And said, "to yonder side."

"Peace, peace! be still thou raging breast,

My fulness is for thee,"

The Saviour speaks, and all is rest,

Like the waves of Galilee.

Robert Nicoll.

Born 1814.

Died 1837.

A NATIVE of Auchtergaven in Perthshire, who amid many difficulties worked himself up into the position of editor of the "Leeds Times," to which he devoted himself heart and soul. His poems are short pieces and songs, which show some talent. He died in his twenty-fourth

year.

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

HIGH thoughts!

They come and go,

Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,
While round me flow

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden;
When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come-
When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-
When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky,
Watch over all with soft and loving eye-
While the leaves quiver

By the lone river,

High thoughts!

And the quiet heart

From depths doth call
And garners all—
Earth grows a shadow
Forgotten whole,

And heaven lives

In the blessed soul!

They are with me

When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy morning melody

Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest.
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees—
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees-
When every branch has its own favourite bird,
And songs of summer from each thicket heard!-

Where the owl flitteth,

Where the rose sitteth,
And holiness

Seems sleeping there;
While nature's prayer