TO MISS

WHO WISHED ME TO WRITE A SONNET.

Anonymous.

WHAT! with that smile beneath your bonnet,

And cheeks of rosy hue,

Do you ask me to write a sonnet?

I cannot e'en for you;

For should I prove so simple

To set me down and try,

I should be thinking of that dimple,
And those lips of vermeil dye;
By those eyes so merry and blue,
With beams so bright and gay,
My sorrows, both old and new,
Would quickly be banish'd away;
Your presence all sorrow composes
(And without it pray what is a sonnet?)
I only can think of the roses,

And the smile that is under your bonnet.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.*

Burns.

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn!

* In the history of the heart's best affections, there are few cases more touching than that of poor Burns. "My Highland lassie," observes the bard, 66 was a warm-hearted, charming young creature, as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell, before she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of Autumn following she crossed the sea, to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her illness."-Cromek, the intelligent editor of the "Reliques of Burns," justly observes, that—" There are events in this transitory scene of existence, seasons of joy or of sorrow, of despair or of hope, which as they powerfully affect us at the time, serve as epochs to the history of our lives. They may be termed the trials of the heart. We treasure them deeply in our memory, and as time glides silently away, they help us to number our days. Of this character was the parting of Burns with his Highland Mary, that interesting female, the first object of the youthful Poet's love. This adieu was performed with all those simple and striking ceremonies which rustie sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions, and to inspire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a Bible between them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted-never to meet again!-The anniversary of Mary Campbell's death (for that was her name) awakening in the sensitive mind of Burns the most lively emotion, he retired from his family, then residing on the farm of Ellisland, and wandered solitary, on the banks of the Nith, and about the farm-yard, in the greatest agitation of mind, nearly the whole of the night; his agitation was so great that he threw himself on the side of a corn-stack, and there conceived his sublime and tender elegy-his address To Mary in Heaven."

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love!

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transport past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

THE INVITATION.

Anonymous.

Oн come, with thy blue eyes of beaming,
Thou nameless one, whom I love best;
When the sun-beam of crimson is streaming

Through the lattice that looks to the west :
Oh come, when the birds with their singing
Fill every recess of the
grove,-
And such thoughts in the boson are springing
As kindle the spirit to love!

Oh come, where the elm-tree incloses
The mossy green seat in its shade,—
And the perfume of blossoming roses

Is borne on the breeze of the glade ;
The streamlet is sparkling beneath us,
The briar-covered banks are above,-
Around are young lilies, and with us

Soft thoughts that speak to us of love!

Oh come, for afflictions are thronging
To darken my life to a waste;
Oh come, for my spirit is longing

The bliss of thy presence to taste!

Though dark disappointments have wrung me,
And though with my fate I have strove,
Whate'er were the arrows that stung me,
I have found a resource in thy love!

Oh come, for thy smiling has cheated
The woes of my breast, and so well
The darkness of sorrows defeated,

That nought else on earth could dispel ;
Without thee my being would wither
And pleasure a bauble would prove;
Forget not, my sweet, to come hither,
And solace my heart by thy love!

THE VISION.

I CALL upon thee in the night,
When none alive are near;
I dream about thee with delight,-
And then thou dost appear
Fair, as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and all is still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,
The spectre of the past;
The trembling azure of thine eye,
Without a cloud o'ercast;

Calm as the pure and silent deep,

When winds are hush'd and waves asleep.

Thou gazest on me!-but thy look

Of angel tenderness,

So pierces, that I less can brook

Than if it spoke distress;
Or came in anguish here to me
To tell of evil boding thee!

Moir.