The rocky guardians of the clime Frown on me, as they menaced death; While echoing still in measured time The gallop of my courser’s hoof, They hoarsely bid me stand aloof. Where goest thou, madman? Where no shade Of tree or tent shall screen thy head. Still on—still on; I turn my eyes— The cliffs no longer mock the skies: The peaks shrink back, and hide their brow, Each other’s lofty peaks below. FROM THE POETRY OF MICKIEWICZ.

As if inspired by fortune, or my good genius, Lady Louisa began thus, in a low voice— “By the way, Mr. Norcliff, you were to have shown me the house in which Alexander Selkirk—or Robinson Crusoe—was born in 1676, I think you said?” “Oh; it is only a cottage, consisting of one storey and a garret; but the next time we come to Largo, I shall show you his flip-can,…

I loved—yes. Ah, let me tell The fatal charms by which I fell! Her form the tam’risk’s waving shoot, Her breast the cocoa’s youngling fruit. Her eyes were jetty, jet her hair, O’ershadowing face like lotus fair; Her lips were rubies, guarding flowers Of jasmine, dimned with vernal showers. STONE TALK.

The next day was to see a crisis in my fate which I could not have anticipated, combined with the narrow escape from mutilation or death of more than one of our pleasant party assembled at the Glen. With all the intensity of my soul, I wished to learn my chances of success with the brilliant Lady Louisa, yet trembled to make the essay. Why, or how was this? Timid…

“Is there any room at your head, Emma? Is there any room at your feet? Is there any room at your side, Emma, Where I may sleep so sweet? “There is no room at my side, Robin; There is no room at my feet. My bed is dark and narrow now; But, oh! my sleep is sweet.” OLD BALLAD.

During the time of King Charles I. and the wars of the great Marquis of Montrose, his captain-general in Scotland—that terrible period when the civil war was waged in England, and Scotland was rent in twain between the armies of the Covenant and of the Cavaliers—William Calderwood of Piteadie was the lover of Annora Moultray,[*] daughter of Symon, the Laird of Seafield; a tower which stands upon the seashore, not…

The heavens were marked by many a filmy streak E’en in the Orient, and the sun shone through Those lines, as Hope upon a mourner’s cheek Sheds, meekly chastened, her delightful hue. From groves and meadows, all empearled with dew, Rose silvery mist, no eddying wind swept by; The cottage chimneys, half concealed from view By their embowering foliage, sent on high Their pallid wreaths of smoke unruffled to the sky. BARTON.

Next day the snow had entirely disappeared; the country again looked fresh and green; and when we met for breakfast, and while the ladies were exchanging their morning kisses lightly on each cheek—à la Française, rather than à l’Ecossaise—various excursions were again projected. Among others, Cora urged that we should visit the ruined Castle of Piteadie, which belonged of old to a branch of my uncle’s family now extinct. It…

What though our love was never told, Or breathed in sighs alone; By sighs that would not be controlled Its growing strength was shown. The touch that thrilled us with delight, The glance, by heart untamed, In one short moon, as brief as bright, That tender truth proclaimed. ALARIC WATTS.

Next morning I resolved that, if possible, it should not pass without some attempt being made to discover the state of Lady Louisa’s heart—how she was affected towards me, and whether I had any chance, however remote, of reviving or securing the interest I trusted she had in me when last we met in England. But over night the snow had fallen heavily; it was six inches deep on the…

No, tempt me not—love’s sweetest flower Hath poison in its smile; Love only woos with dazzling power, To fetter hearts the while. I will not wear its rosy chain, Nor e’en its fragrance prove; I fear too much love’s silent pain— No, no! I will not love.

Through the cool and airy corridor, with its cabinets full of Sèvres jars, Indian bowls, and sculptured marble busts—on one side the Marli horses in full career crowning a buhl pedestal; on the other a bronze Laocoon, with his two sons, in the coils of the brazen serpents—we proceeded to the drawing-room, a merry and laughing party, for it was impossible to resist the influence of a good dinner, good…

Come, let us enjoy the fleeting day, And banish toil, and laugh at care, For who would grief and sorrow beat When he can throw his griefs away? Away, away! begone, I say! For mournful thought Will come unsought. BOWRING’S “POETRY OF SPAIN.”

“Provost,” said my uncle to the jovial and rubicund magistrate who sat on his left hand, now that he had taken Cora’s place at the head of the table, “try the Johannisberg. It is some given to me by Prince Metternich when I was at Vienna, and is from grapes raised in his own vineyards. Rare stuff it is for those who like such light wines.” “Thank you, Sir Nigel;…

And, oh! the memories that cling Around this old oak-panelled room! The pine logs flashing through the gloom, Sun sparkles from life’s early spring. After long years I rest again; This ancient home it seems to me, Wearied with travel o’er the sea. Holds anodyne for carking pain.

As I surveyed my old apartment the memories of other years stole over me with somewhat of a soothing influence, for when I thought of the past, the littleness of the present, the evanescent nature of all things could not fail to impress me. It was in that room I had the last vivid recollection of my dear mother’s face, on that farewell morning, when with early dawn she stole…

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy song to the ev’ning, Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood Glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae heartless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane. TANNAHILL.

“Here is the old house, and here we are at last, Newton,” said my uncle, as an abrupt turn of the private path through the woodlands brought us suddenly in front of the ancient mansion, in which, after the early death of my father, I had spent my boyhood. It stands in a well-wooded hollow, or glen, overlooked by the three Lomonds of Fife—a county which, though not renowned for…

Pure as the silver wreath of snow That lies on yonder wintry hill, Are all the thoughts that peaceful flow, And with pure joy my bosom fill. Soft as the sweet spring’s morning breath, Or summer’s zephyr, forth they roam; Until my bosom grows more kind, And dreams of thee and all at home.

The winter day was cold and clear, but without frost, save on the mountain tops, where the snow was lying. Though vegetation should have been dormant, the swelling uplands, the pastoral hills and braes of Fife, looked green and fertile; and there was a premature budding of young shoots, which the bitter frost of to-morrow might totally destroy. Fires glowed redly through the little square windows of the wayside cottages,…