Alexander Maclagan. Maclagan was born at Perth, Scotland, April 3d, 1811. He attended school in Edinburgh, and at twelve years of age was apprenticed to a plumber. In 1829 he contributed pieces to the Literary Journal, and his poetical talents were recognized by John Wilson, James Hogg, and Lord Jeffrey. Volumes of poems from his pen appeared in 1841, 1854, and 1863; and in 1871 he was enabled to publish, in an illustrated quarto, "Balmoral; Songs of the Highlands, and other Poems." "DINNA YE HEAR IT?" 'Mid the thunder of battle, the groans of the dying, The wail of weak women, the shouts of brave men, A poor Highland maiden sat sobbing and sighing, As she longed for the peace of her dear native glen, But there came a glad voice to the ear of her heart, The foes of auld Scotland forever will fear it: "We are saved! we are saved!" cried the brave Highland maid, [it?" "Tis the Highlanders' slogan! Oh dinna ye hear Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? High o'er the battle's din, dinna ye hear it? High o'er the battle's din, hail it and cheer it! 'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! Oh, dinna ye hear it? A moment the tempest of battle was hushed, Bartholomew Simmons. Simmons (circa 1811-1850) was born in Kilworth, County Cork, Ireland. He obtained a situation in the Excise Office in London, which he held till his death. He contributed, between 1838 and 1848, some spirited poems to Blackwood's Magazine, the editor of which says, "Simmons on the theme of Napoleon excels all our great poets. Byron's lines on that subject are bad; Scott's, poor; Wordsworth's, weak. Lockhart and Simmons may be bracketed as equal; theirs are good, rich, strong." SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE. I. Sweet Corrin! how softly the evening light goes, one Of his friends-the lone rock and gray ruin, is gone. 1 The picturesque mountain of Corrin is the termination of a long range of hills which encloses the valley of the Blackwater and the Funcheon in the County of Cork, Ireland. And the blackbird by Douglass is hushing its hymn, Of him who, toil-harassed and time-shaken now, Still the hamlet gleams white-still the church yews III. My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, behold, Scarcely breaking, Glen-coorah, thy glorious repose! And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay Like a bird in the branches, an arbor I made, While I read of stout Sinbad, or voyaged with Cook. On the turf thou hast hallowed sinks down wearyhearted, sighs [that replies? Through the boughs that once blessed thee is all VI. But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in gray, And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about, 1840. FROM "STANZAS ON THOMAS HOOD.” This joyous, May-eyed morrow, Gave to be reared by Sorrow! In whose sweet-tongued companionship Dear worshipper of Dian's face In solitary places! Shalt thou no more steal as of yore To meet her white embraces ? Is there no purple in the rose Henceforward to thy senses? For thee have dawn and daylight's close Lost their sweet influences? No! by the mental sight untamed Thon took'st to Death's dark portal,The joy of the wide universe Is now to thee immortal! FROM "THE MOTHER OF THE KINGS." In the London Keepsake for 1837, Lady Emeline Stuart Wortley describes a visit to Madame Letitia, mother of Napoleon, then in her eighty-fourth year. She was on her bed, and her room was hung around with large, full-length portraits of the members of her illustrious family. Strange looked that lady old, reclined In that vast chamber, echoing not To page or maiden's tread; And stranger still the gorgeous forms, In portrait, that glanced round From the high walls, with cold bright looks They were her children :-never yet, Fair painting brought on rainbow wings Did one fond mother give such race As they who now, back on her brow, Her daughters there-the beautiful! But right before her conch's foot, One mightiest picture blazedOne form august, to which her eyes Incessantly were raised; A monarch's too!-and monarch-like, The artist's hand had bound him With jewelled belt, imperial sword, And ermined purple round him. One well might deem, from the white flags That o'er him flashed and rolled, Where the puissant lily laughed And waved its bannered gold, And from the Lombard's iron crown That Charlemagne had burst death's reign How gleamed that awful countenance, In its dark smile and smiting look, As though he scoffed all pomp below Such was the scene-the noontide hour— Of his meteor-like career- Napoleon's mother-lie With the living dead around her, Mrs. Jane Cross Simpson. Mrs. Simpson was born in Glasgow in 1811; a daughter of James Bell, advocate, and a sister of Henry Glassford Bell, the lawyer-poet. She published in 1838 a volume of poems, entitled "April Hours ;" and is the author of the well-known hymn, "Go when the morning shineth," claimed for various authors, but contributed by her to the Edinburgh Literary Journal of February 26th, 1831, where it is signed "Gertrude." GO WHEN THE MORNING SHINETH. Go when the morning shineth, Go when the eve declineth, Go in the hush of night; Remember all who love thee, All who are loved by thee; Pray too for those who hate thee, If any such there be. MRS. JANE CROSS SIMPSON.—ALFRED BILLINGS STREET. Then for thyself, in meekness, A blessing humbly claim; And link with each petition The great Redeemer's name. Or if 'tis e'er denied thee In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee When friends are round thy way,Even then the silent breathing Of thy spirit raised above, May reach His throne of glory, Who is mercy, truth, and love. Oh! not a joy or blessing With this can we compare, The power that He hath given us To pour our hearts in prayer! Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness, Before His footstool fall, And remember, in thy gladness, His grace who gave thee all. Alfred Billings Street. AMERICAN. Street was born in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., in 1811. He studied law, but in 1839 removed to Albany, and accepted the place of State Librarian. His first volume of poems appeared in 1842. He is a close and accurate observer of natural scenery. A landscape-painter might, with little aid from the imagination, find in his descriptions material for many a picture. His strength lies in details, however, rather than in bold generalizations that flash a scene upon the mind's eye by a few well-chosen phrases. His poems will be read with pleasure by students of natural scenery and sylvan effects. His longest work, "Frontenac" (1849), is a narrative poem, being a tale of the Iroquois. His other works are: "The Burning of Schenectady, and other Poems;" "Drawings and Tintings" (1844); "Fugitive Poems" (1846); "Woods and Waters" (1869); "Forest Pictures in the Adirondacs" (1864); "Poems" (1866). THE NOOK IN THE FOREST. A nook within the forest: overhead The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, Breaking white cloud, blue sky, and sunshine bright Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, And flecks of gold; a soft, cool emerald tint Colors the air, as though the delicate leaves Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls, And what a gorgeous roof, carved by the hand 701 Of glorious Nature! Here the spruce thrusts in While here and there, through clefts, the laurel hangs Such nooks as this are common in the woods: That the low flower our careless foot treads down And radiant beauty; and that God hath formed A FOREST WALK. A lovely sky, a cloudless sun, A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers, The spruce its green tent stretches wide, |