He lost in errors bis vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.

Cowper.

ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III.

Bells toll for peasants, and we heed them not:
But when the great, the good, the mighty die,
Roused by the grandeur of their lofty lot
We pause to listen, and reflecting sigh.

We cannot grieve alike for youth and age.
For thee, fair Scion of the royal tree,
We wept in anguish ; time could scarce assuage.
We wept--and oh! not only wept for thee,

But thee, the age-worn monarch of these realms,
Thyself survivor of each dearest tie;
We mourn not with the sorrow that o'erwhelms,
But with the silent tear of memory.

Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night,
But ran its course, and slowly verging set ;
Preparing shades had long involved its light,
And stole the poignant anguisha of regret.

To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved,
The darkened mind in mercy first was given ;
That thou mightst never mourn the fondly loved,
Nor know them lost on earth, till met in heaven !

0! what a rapturous change, from dark to light,
From double darkness, of the soul and eye
For thee--whose days were quenched in deepest night!
To thee- 'twas death to live'tis life to die.

Those darkened eyes--no more obstruct the day,
That mind no more spurns reason's blest control,
Far from her wretched tenement of clay,
All eye-all reason-soars the happy soul.

As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,
And high communion with thy spirit hold ?
Still sweetly whispering, Join our kindred band,
Come where the gates of heaven for thee unfold

Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,
The loved—the lost to thy embraces press ;
Come, where the Saviour who has died to save,
Lives-loves—and reigns eternally to bless!

Dunette.

THE MINSTREL.

Silent and sad—the Minstrel sat,

And thought on the days of yore;
He was old—yet he loved his native land,

Though his harp could charm no more !

The winds of heaven died away,

And the moon in the valley slept ;
The Minstrel leaned on his olden barp,

And o'er its strains he wept !

In youth he had stood by the Wallace side,

And sung in King Robert's hall;
When Edward vowed, with his English host,

Scotland to hold in thrall.

But the Wallace wight was dead and gone,

And Robert was on his deathbed ; And dark was the ball where the Minstrel sung

Of chiefs that for Scotia bled !

But oft as the twilight stole o'er the steep,

And the woods of his native vale,
Would the Minstrel wake his harp to weep,
And sigh to the mountain gale!

R. Allan.

MONIMIA.

The bell had tolled the midnight hour,

Monimia sought the shade ;
The cheerless yew-tree marked the spot

Where Leontine was laid.

With soft and trembling steps the maid

Approached the drear abode ;
A tear-drop glistened on her cheek,

And dewed her lover's sod!

Cold blew the blast, the yew-tree shook,

And sighed with hollow moan ;
The wandering moon had sunk to rest,

And faint the twilight shone.

Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,

Dewed with the tear of sorrow,
While oft she pressed her lover's grave,
Nor waked with dawn of morrow.

R. Allan.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

Day faded from the hill and wood,

Around a rayless night was spread ;
It closed above a scene of blood,

The dying and the dead.
And silence brooded o'er the field,

Where echoed late the trump and drum ;
And where a thousand thunders pealed

Their death-knell, all was dumb.

Here, 'midst his brave, but perished band,

Upon a midnight couch of clay,