Wherever I ramble, wherever I fly,

Whate'er be my climate, if beauty be nigh;

If woman, sweet woman, but breathe the same air,
There pleasure is present; despised ev'ry care.

But think not,lov'd maiden! this heart formed to change,.

Or, bee-like, is customed capricious to range;

One mistress supreme in my bosom I'll own,

And you, my sweet girl! are my empress alone.

TO MISS

How dear to me that blissful hour,

When lovely woman's charms are nigh; When Beauty wakes its sweetest power,

To bid the raptured moments fly!

'Twas thus, my Anna, by thy side

I learned to feel love's thrilling glow;
My bosom owned the swelling tide
Of extacy's empassioned flow..

'Twas from thy soft, but syren eyes,
My heart first 'caught the magic fire,
That breaks its chords with struggling sighs,
And bids my quietude expire.

No artful smile, sweet girl, is thine,
No borrowed gaze the soul to lure;
Thy blooming features beauteous shine
With grace unstudied, sweetness pure.

I love the radiant form of truth,
The modest look I still admire;
And these, combined with rosy youth,
My bosom ever will inspire.

O blame not, then, the minstrel's lay,
If love alone vibrates each string;
For Beauty guides my tuneful way,
And lovely Anna bids me sing.

SONNET.

How sweet to view the peep of morn serene,
When vernal sweetness hangs on ev'ry blade;
When laughing pleasure frolics o'er the scene,
And richest music warbles from the shade!

See, slowly rising from the azure main,

Whose glittering breast reflects his splendid blaze, The king of day begins his golden reign,

And scatters o'er the earth life's genial rays.
High up the cloudless arch of heaven he climbs,
As to his noon-tide goal he bends his way;
All nature with delight in chorus chimes,
And hails, with gratitude, the ripened day.
Thus, when the morn of life is clear and
pure,

May noon's realities our joys mature.

A FEW LINES,

SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

MR. SAMUEL GILFILLAN,

student of DIVINITY,

Who died in Glasgow, January 1814, while pursuing bis Studies at the University there.

Say, ye who leave the joys of home,
The scenes of youth, a parent's dome,

And

gaze the last time, o'er and o'er,
The beauties of your natal shore;
Does not some whis p'ring influence cheer
You, with the expectation dear,

That, soon or late, your eye again, A
Will wander o'er each long-loved plain?
That, soon or late, with joy you'll hail
The verdure of your native vale?
'Tis this supports us when we part
From pleasures woven with our heart,
And bids us fearless to defy

The billowy way, or desert dry.

Too hapless youth! alas! no more
Thy feet shall press Hibernia's shore.
No more the voice of parents dear,
Or friends thou e'er again shalt hear;
For far from Erin's hills of green,
From boy-hood's every lovely scene,
Enshrouded 'midst sepulchral gloom,
Thou liest in the narrow tomb.
Amidst unbroken silence, there

Thou sleepest, void of ev'ry care.
The storms of life may round thee rage,
And crowds commix of ev'ry age,

Reposed in peace, thou heed'st them not,

Alike forgetting and forgot.

Forgot, oh! no!-for thee the Muse

Thy grave

And

with cypress branches strews;

many a friend, for many a year,

Shall nurse thy memory with a tear.

FINIS.