Yet well dost thou sleep, if the dead may not dream

Of the woes that the living must feel, Nor Heaven develope that mystical scheme, Which may all from their spirits conceal.

Here envy and malice are stalking abroad,
The wareless and young to betray;

And censures that gain not a sanction from God,
Pass not from the living away.

Through years that are o'er I have struggled with life,

And struggle so darkly and vain ;

Oh! well could I rather than turn to the strife,
Never part from thy dwelling again.

All-all that are living, but live to decay

The dead have no woes to reveal ;

The cold of their chamber-the worm of the clayCan teach not their ashes to feel.

Thy dwelling is dark-but thy spirit yet lives,
Where the faithful from sorrows are free;
And, for aught that this scene of mortality gives,
'Twere well with my father to be.

The few deep-wove ties that here bind heart to heart,
Unbroken not long can remain ;

And hope still is ours, that the sooner we part,
The sooner they'll bind us again.

I reck nought of favour-of fortune and fame—
These dreams were of life's early morn :

This turf were a shield from of mankind the blame,
From their praise, or their pride, or their scorn.

And so shall it be ere a few summers more

Thus steal o'er thy couch of decay;

Thy locks fell with hues that in youthhood they

wore,

And mine may not live to be grey.

LINES TO A NOTE-BOOK.

HEAR, little book, my simple sang,
And ye ane book o' life shall be,
For a' my actions, right and wrang,
Henceforth wi' care I'll mark in thee!

Of fortune's changes, rough or smooth, Remembrance shall in thee remain, And of the wanderings of my youth, I'll in thy pages trace again.

For when the days are drawing on,
That I to kindred clay maun gae;

When grey hairs wave my haffets roun',
And life can naething yield but wae,

I'll fald ye in my auld plaid-nook,
And dander down my native glen,
Where, seated sad, in thee I'll look,
The deeds o' other years to ken.

Maybe my tears thy leaves may weetPerchance these words flow frae my tongue

Oh! ye again can ne'er be white,

And I again can ne'er be young!

Even when low laid aneath the lea,

And at my head ane mossy stane, Some frien' will maybe look in thee,

And drap a tear for him that's gane!

THE CALM.

As slow the light of day declined,
I ponder'd by the ocean lone,

Which lay still as the slumbering mind
When all its earthly dreams are flown ;

Yes, it was calm—for every gale

That wont to blow from hill and vale

Came not, or only came to sigh

The waters into rest more deep,

As if Time's wing, in passing by,
Had fann'd created things asleep-

Yes, it was calm, as if away

All spirit had escaped for aye!

Above me to the distant sky

The dark grey clouds were closely clung,