And seek the haunts of men to shun The virgin blush of lovely youth, SAY, SWEET CAROL! JOANNA BAILLIE. Say, sweet carol! who are they And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair, Say, sweet carol? who are they But most of all the maid of cheerful soul THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. Our bugles sung truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Till nature and sunshine disclos'd the sweet way To the house of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, travell❜d so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young: I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And well knew the strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledg'd we the wine cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heartStay, stay with us, rest-thou art weary and worn! 'And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE DOWNFAL OF DALZELL. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. The wind is cold, the snow falls fast, The night is dark and late, By the oppressor's gate. A tongue in every stone; The greenwood sings a song of joy, A poet's voice is in each mouth, Glad songs, that tell the gladsome earth As I raised up my voice to sing From their foundation stones; The carbine and the culverin's mute- I've trod thy banner in the dust, I've made thy minstrels' music dumb, And silent now to fame Art thou, save when the orphan casts His curses on thy name. Now thou may'st say to good men's prayers A long and last farewell : There's hope for every sin save thine— Adieu, adieu, Dalzell! The grim pit opes for thee her gates, And ghastly death throws wide her door, Deep from the grave there comes a voice, Such as a spirit's tongue would have O'er an old battle-field there rush'd Even fellow-bone to bone. Lo! there he goes, I heard them cry, Who shook the temples of the Lord, And from his father's hearth-stone hiss: All hail to thee, Dalzell! I saw thee growing like a tree Thy green head touch'd the sky-- |