SELECTIONS FROM THE LATE MRS. JAMES GRAY'S POETICAL REMAINS. Written while sitting on the grave of the Rev. Charles Wolfe.

No flower is here, no drooping tree o'ershades it!
Only a low plain stone-a few short lines-
Tell what most hallowed dust this place en-
shrines;

But oh! a glory bright and pure pervades it!
And while I sit upon the lowly tomb,

Knowing what gifted heart beneath decays, My soul were sad, although the poet's bays Are green, while time shall be, in deathless bloom.

But a yet holier spell is here-this dust

Housed not alone the fire of genius; light From heaven was there, making it doubly bright

Strengthening its wings with the true Christian's

trust.

I view this grave with thoughtfulness, not pride, Knowing the glorious shall be glorified!

FRAGMENT.

On! sweetest poesy!
Come back to me again!

How have I scared thee? Beneath a darkened sky,

'Midst floods of grief and pain, My spirit reared thee! Canst thou not bear the sunny light That bursts at last upon my sight?

Whilst I was full of gloom,
And my sad bosom dark,

And my heart lonely,
Thon on my path would'st come,
Clear as a bright star's spark-
"Twas thine only!
Canst thou not, oh! maiden, bear
With rival comforters to share?

Now love, with all his light,
Brings the sweet blossoms back
Whereof he bereft me;
Thou from my gladdened sight
Fliest on a lonely track,

And thou hast left me.
Art thou like the rainbow's form,
That brighteneth only in the storm?

Well, bright and fair thon art-
Dear is thy radiant smile,
Though so unreal;

Yet if we thus must part,

And me no more beguile
Visions ideal,

The love, whose presence thou dost flee,
Brings balm even for the loss of thee!

GO FORTH INTO THE COUNTRY. Go forth into the country,

From a world of care and guile;
Go forth to the untainted air,

And the sunshine's open smile.
It shall clear thy clouded brow-
It shall loose the worldly coil
That binds thy heart too closely up,
Thou man of care and toil!

Go forth into the country,

Where gladsome sights and sounds
Make the heart's pulses thrill and leap
With fresher, quicker bounds.
They shall wake fresh life within
The mind's enchanted bower;
Go, student of the midnight lamp,
And try their magic power!

Go forth into the country,

With its songs of happy birds,
Its fertile vales, its grassy hills,
Alive with flocks and herds.
Against the power of sadness
Is its magie all arrayed-
Go forthi, and dream no idle dreams,
Oh! visionary maid!

Go forth into the country,

Where the nut's rich clusters grow, Where the strawberry nestles 'midst the furze,

And the holly-berries glow. Each season hath its treasures, Like thee all free and wildWho would keep thee from the country, Thou happy, artless child?

Go forth into the country,

It hath many a solemn grove, And many an altar on its hills, Sacred to peace and love. And whilst with grateful fervor Thine eyes its glories scan, Worship the God who made it all, Oh! holy Christian man!

THE OUTCAST'S BIRTHDAY SONG.

I REMEMBERED it when I waked at morn,
When the early cock crew loud;
When the dew hung bright on the blossomed
thorn,

And the lark was in the cloud.

I remembered this spring-day brought again
The close of another year-

A link in the chain of deepening pain,
Of weariness and fear.

I am far from the home that gave me birth,
A blight is on my name ;
It only brings to my father's hearth
The memory of shame.
Yet, oh! do they think of me to-day,
The loved ones lingering there;
Do they think of the outcast far away,
And breathe for me a prayer?

I mind me when a happy child

Amidst that household dear,
That the birthday morning ever smiled
The brightest of all the year.
We hailed each other cheerfully,

With many a wish of joy;

And our hoarded pence fond gifts would buyFlowers, fruit, or curious toy.

And we made a feast 'neath the broad oak trees,
And passed the gladsome hours,

Singing amidst the birds and bees,
Crowning our brows with flowers.
'Twas a day of rest from slate and book,
A day of cloudless mirth;

Though we knew not, as its joys we took,
How much such joys are worth.

And then a kiss, in my little bed,
From my mother, closed the day;
And I am longing now, instead,

For a quiet couch of clay;
With a stilly, dreamless sleep to fold
This aching heart and brain,
With blankets of the rich, dark mould,
And a daisy counterpane.

That early home I shall see no more,
And I wish not there to go,

For the happy past may nought restore—
The future is but woe.

But 'twould be a balm to my heavy heart

Upon its dreary way,

If I could think I have a part

"In the prayers of home to-day!

"IMPLORA PACE."

Оn for one hour of rest! Would I could feel A quiet, dreamless slumber falling on me, And yet be conscious that my strong appeal

To heaven for mercy had that blessing won me!

How could I love to know each limb was still!
To have no sense except that I was sleeping,
To feel I had no memory of past ill,

No vision tinged with smile or weeping.
Vain yearning! Ever since the spirit came
Into the bondage of this mortal frame,
It hath been restless, sleepless, unsubdued,
Aud ne'er hath known a moment's quietude!

How have I courted rest-rest for my soul!
Flung by my books, and cast my pen away,
And said "No weary wave of thought shall roll,
To lift my spirit from its calm to-day!"
Then I have gone into the dim, green wood,
And laid me down upon the mossy earth;
And straight a thousand shapes have risen and
stood

Around me, telling me they took their birth
From my own soul! and then farewell to rest!
For if they're fair I woo them to my breast,
And if they're dark they force them on my sight,
Standing between my spirit and the light.

And I have gone, in the still twilight hour,

And sate beneath the lindens, while the bee Was murmuring happily in some near flower; But then I could not rest for ecstacy. And I have lain where the wide ocean heaveth; But here no quiet steeps my feverish head, For many a buried image my heart giveth At the low, spell-like moaning of the main, Like that great sea delivering up her dead.

I may not wholly rest!-before my brain, When my eye closeth, flit a thousand dreams, Like insects hovering o'er tree-shadowed streams.

[When John Bull's pocket is touched he is generally surly and sulky, and in few instances contents himself with reprisals in the shape of so good-humored a squib as the following. Having heard it sung with the accompaniment of some merry laughter, we begged the MS. from the author, and print it in the hope that it will amuse on both sides of the Atlantic, though it hits pretty hard at the doctrine of repudiation.-Ed. Lit. Gaz.]

YANKEE Doodle borrows cash,
Yankee Doodle spends it,
And then he snaps his fingers at
The jolly flat who lends it.
Ask him when he means to pay,
He shows no hesitation,

But says he'll take the shortest way,
And that's repudiation!

Yankee Doodle borrows cash, &c.

The reverend joker of St. Paul's
Don't relish much their plunder,
And often at their knavish tricks
Has hurl'd his witty thunder.
But Jonathan by nature wears
A hide of toughest leather,
Which braves the sharpest-pointed darts
And cannons put together!
Yankee Doodle, &c.

He tells 'em they are clapping on
Their credit quite a stopper,
And when they want to go to war
They'll never raise a copper.
If that's the case, they coolly say,
Just as if to spite us,

They'd better stop our dividends,
And hoard 'em up to fight us!
Yankee Doodle, &c.

What's the use of money'd friends
If you mustn't bleed 'em?
Ours, I guess, says Jonathan,

The country is of freedom!
And what does freedom mean, if not

To whop your slaves at pleasure, And borrow money when you can, To pay it at your leisure? Yankee Doodle, &c.

Great and free Amerikee
With all the world is vying,
That she's the "land of promise"
There is surely no denying.
But be it known henceforth to all,
Who hold their I. O. U., sirs,
A Yankee Doodle promise is
A Yankee Doodle do, sirs!
Yankee Doodle, &c.

CECIL HARBOTTLE.

STANZAS.

BY ROBERT GILFILLAN.

To his Niece, Miss Marion Law Gilfillan, on her Birth-Day,
January, 1845.

WHILE the murky sky is riven
By howling tempests, winter driven;
While the landscape's white with snow,
And the rattling bail-blasts blow;
While the sun's brief beams appear
As mourning for the parted year;
Wake, my harp, and weave a lay
To Marion, on her natal day!

Another year!-Thus, one by one,
Hours, days, and years glide quickly on!
And all things change by Time's decree-

The acorn 'comes the goodly tree!

And thus in woman's dawning hour
We miss the bud, but mark the flower!
And thou, now blooming bright and gay,
Art but the child of yesterday.

As years grow, may thy wisdom rise-
Be virtue, goodness, these the prize;
And friends shall welcome thee, as now,
To cheer thy heart, and smooth thy brow!

Apart from the careless throng; But, perchance, my steps in maturer days Might have wander'd away to wrong. Vainly thy counsels, thy tears, thy prayers,

Might have urg'd me from ill to fly,— Now I am taken from worldly snares,

And I do not grieve to die.

Yet think not, mother, in pride I dwell On the sins I have left undone;

LIGHT rests on shadows, mountains frown o'er vales,

Rocks have their bases hidden from our view;
The lightest airs precede the heaviest gales-
The hottest suns provoke the earliest dew.
Ships which shake out their spreading, white-
winged sails,

Feel most the blasts that in their wake pursue;
Love's sweetest strains some long-lost joy bewails;
The toil of many is the gain of few!
Our fairest hopes, to full fruition grown,
In forms substantial lose ideal grace;
And when we seek to clasp in our embrace
The life-like image, it hath turned to stone!
So fade our joys, and as long years roll on,
Their shadows measure our declining sun!
November 17, 1844.

THE DYING BOY TO HIS MOTHER.

BY MRS. ABDY.

MOTHER, the primrose is fresh and fair,
And sweet is the hawthorn's bloom,
And the deep blue violets gladness bear
To my still and shaded room;

Flowers on my grave shall their fragrance shed,
Ere the laughing spring goes by;
Yet think not, mother, I speak in dread,
For I do not grieve to die.

I have known not an angry look or word,
I have felt not the storms of life;
But, mother, I oft from the wise have heard
That the world is a world of strife;

And my smile might have chang'd to a care-worn brow,

And my song become a sigh ;

1 am going to cloudless regions now,
And I do not grieve to die.

I read in an ancient book, one day,
How a mother the gods implor'd,

That their choicest gifts might without delay
On her duteous sons be pour'd;
She went in hope to the temple soon-
There, lifeless she saw them lie!
If death be indeed such a blessed boon,
Should the young feel sad to die?

In my heart hath long begun,
And a fearful list of my failures past

Awaits the All-seeing eye;

But my sins on my Saviour in faith I cast, And I do not dread to die.

Nay, say not, mother, 'tis hard to part
With the hopes long fondly nurs'd;
Think what a trial had rent thy heart
If the Lord had call'd thee first.
The world, perchance, had thy boy oppress'd,
Bereft of his dearest tie;

Now thou wilt see him receiv'd to rest,

And thou wilt not grieve to die.

And, mother, if God should in grace permit His angels to visit earth,

Doubt not my spirit shall daily flit

Round thy cherish'd home and hearth. When sorrow and sickness bow thy frame, And tell thee so oft of thy Saviour's name, I will cheerful thoughts supply,

That thou wilt not fear to die.

And oh dear mother, when death is near,
At the stroke thou shalt rejoice;
None but thyself shall the accents hear
Of a young familiar voice.

That voice shall speak of a holier state,
And say from the azure sky-
"Mother, I wait thee at heaven's bright gate,
And thou need'st not fear to die."

1

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JAMES GREY. How the stars fade away!-the sky is dark Where once they shone with such clear radiant light.

List, to a voice of music!-and then, hark!

The death-wail sounds upon the ear of night. Pale drooping forms mourn o'er a broken spell, And cold winds murmur forth, "Farewell— farewell!"

Must it be always so-this early death

For those who give to live its brightest hue? Is there deep poison in song's sweetest breath, That thus we lose the young-the loved-the