CLARENS, ON LAKE LEMAN. And, as they fell around them furling, And the wide hum of that wild host Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, To mortal minstrelsy unknown. CLARENS, ON LAKE LEMAN. CLARENS! Sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,—so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone LORD BYRON. In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines. Which slope his green path downward to the shore, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many-coloured things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, That tender mystery, will love the more; For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! OUR native land-our native vale-- And Cheviot mountains blue. Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye braes and blossomed meads, THOMAS PRINGLE. Farewell, the blithesome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells growFarewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe. The mossy cave and mouldering tower The martyr's grave, the lover's bower, Home of our love! our father's home! Land of the brave and free! The sail is slapping on the foam We seek a wild and distant shore, Our native land-our native vale- Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue! EATON STANNARD BARRETT. 179--18 THE SYMPTOMS OF LOVE. WHAT will not man, if ardent Love inspire? Then how he sees conspicuous in her face, In her 'tis wisdom to discuss a straw. The goblet moistened at her lip, he drains; Else jealous, and on vengeful project bound, Such symptoms his. But if the maiden feel, |