That name shall be storied in record sublime,

In the uttermost corners of earth :
And renowned, till the wreck of expiring time,

Be the glorified land of my birth!

Yes, bury my heart in the boundless sea :

It would burst from a narrower tomb, Should less than an ocean my sepulchre be, Or if wrapped in less horrible gloom !

John Malcolm, Esq.

MATILDA.

Outrageous did the loud wind blow

Across the sounding main ; The vessel tossing to and fro,

Could scarce the storm sustain.

Matilda to her fearful breast

Held close her infant dear ;
His presence all her fears increased,

And waked the tender tear.

Now nearer to the grateful shore,

The shattered vessel drew;
The daring waves now ceased to roar,

Now shout the exulting crew.

Matilda, with a mother's joy,

Gave thanks to heaven's power ; How fervent she embraced her boy!

How blest the saving hour!

O! much deceived and hapless fair,

Tho' ceased the waves to roar, Thou, from that fatal moment, ne'er

Didst taste of pleasure more.

For, stepping forth from off the deck,

To reach the welcome ground, The babe, enclasping from her neck,

Plunged in the gulph profound.

Amazement-chained ! her haggard eye

Gave not a tear to flow,
Her bosom heaved no conscious sigh,

She stood a sculptured woe.

To snatch the child from instant death,

Some braved the threatening main, And to recall his fleeting breath

Tried every art in vain.

But when the corse had met her view,

Stretched on the pebbly strand, Roused from her exstacy she flew,

And pierced th' opposing band.

With tresses discomposed and rude,

Fell prostrate on the ground, To the infant's lips, her lips she glued,

And sorrow burst its bound.

Now throwing round a troubled glance,

With madness' ráy inflamed, And, breaking from her silent trance,

She wildly thus exclaimed:

6 Heard

ye the helpless infant scream ? Saw ye the mother bold ? How, as she flung him in the stream,

The billows o'er him rolled ?

But soft, awhile-see! there he lies,

Embalmed in infant sleep;
Why fall the dew-drops from your eyes ?

What cause is here to weep ?

· Yes, yes-his little life is fled,

His heaveless breast is cold ;
What tears will not thy mother shed,

When thy sad tale is told !

Ah me! that cheek of livid hue

That brow-that auburn hair Those lips where late the roses blew,

All, all my son declare.

Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein

A voice in accents wild, Thunders to this distracted brain,

Matilda slew her child !

She added not-but sunk oppressed,

Death on her eye-lids stole ;
While from her grief-distracted breast,
She sighed her tortured soul.

Jerningham.

STANZAS.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine,
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight wayes,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or, when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence like thy throne !
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes

that watch

my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wonderous name.