One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger

stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “ She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur ; “ They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby

clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and

they ran; There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

SIR WALTER SCOTT,

The Convict Ship.

Morn on the waters !-and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flashing of light;

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward, like hope in the gale ;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along;
See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away, and away !
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart !
Whomas the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light !
Look to the waters !-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherish'd home on some desolate plain !
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem with a sigh,

That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within ?
Who—as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever ?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ?

'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song !
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs :-
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears ;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot

know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and

O'er.

HERVEY

To the Rainbow

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art :

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and beaven.

Can all that optics teach unfold

A form to please me so,
As when I dream'd of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow ?

When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's vejl withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws !

And yet, fair bow, no fabled dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey father's forth

To watch thy sacred sign.

And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam ; Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme !

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshen'd fields,

The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down !

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.