And shows a fleshless, eyeless head

To the survivors of the dead.

Whene'er I leave th' abode of men

A trophy which grim death hath slain,
Then may the grave receive its trust,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

In sure and certain hope to rise,
Immortal to the ethereal skies;

But in the churchyard's glutted ground,

Pierce me no vault, nor raise a mound.

Then where?

Near a village church, and shady grove,

Where I've listened to Janie's tale of love;

Where the mournful yew, with its branches spread,

Shadows the mansions of the dead;

Where the death-toned bell, with its vibrous toll,

May strike on the prayerless, hopeless soul,
Till he thinks as he never thought before;
Till he feels that his pride is light and poor;
Poor when compared with the shortest breath,
And light in the balances of death:

Where the swain may leave his humble cot,
To visit one who shall be not;

And nymphs at eventide may stray,
Their tearful homage oft to pay,

And dress my grave with simple flowers,

To be refreshed by heavenly showers

Near there!

1

On the lonely brow of yonder hill,
Where the bright and tiny singing rill
Leaps o'er its washed and pebbled bed,
As it comes from its moss-lipped fountain head,
Speeding into the river below,

Where the clouds are reflected, white as snow;
Where the boatman, as he glides along,

May look upward and chant his plaintive song,
Singing my dirge; with the waving tree
As Nature's sweetest symphony—

Just there!

Beneath the hawthorn's perfumed bough (Where loving hearts record their vow), Whose fantastic stems make a knotty seat

For the wise and grave to meditate;

Where defensive thorns and blossomed sprays

Speak friendship firm and affection's praise;
Friendship as reputation's guard,

And praise as virtue's pure reward;

'Neath that tree which Scotland's poet sung,
When his Highland Mary yet was young;
Where, when the toilsome day is done,
You may sit and see the setting sun,

And moralize o'er my little heap

Until

you think on death and weep;

No stone inscribed with fulsome lays
Shall tell the number of my days,

For kindred hearts shall friendship give

Enough to bid my memory live

E'en there!

Yes, when the pale moon sheds her light
O'er the grassy turf at the birth of night,
They shall wander near and gently tread
On the tufted knoll of my narrow bed,

And, sighing, say as they pensive look,

"The fields were his study and nature his book;

He loved to pen in simple rhyme

His thoughts of the beautiful and sublime,

And learnt to admire as well as read

The works of the great and mighty dead;
Whilst at the fireside he'd rehearse

The thoughts which he had writ in verse,
Some sentiments would grace his song,
And please as with an Angel's tongue;
Some touched the tenderest sympathy,
And caused a painful harmony."

Then ne'er despise his humble strain,
Who writes to please ne'er wrote in vain.
Affection's tribute they shall pay,

Let fall a tear and go their way,

Saying, "He would have shed his blood

For his country's weal, as the cause of God."
Farewell! I make my last request,

When death shall chill my Janie's breast,

Like two doves let us sleep in one hallowed nest, And the question ask no more, then, where? 'Neath the hawthorn tree, we'll be buried there!

Yes, there-Yes, there!

NATURE'S ADDRESS TO THE POET.

WHILST the thought thrills thy brain,

Child of the tender strain,

Take up the poet's pen;

Write on the wave,

Silvered by Luna's rays,

Breaking in gentle sprays,

Spangling the briny ways,

Loved by the brave.

Whilst in her glory bright

Beauty, in robes of light,

Honours the Queen of Night,

Sing her, I say!

Sing her with moonlit face,
Treading the vaulted space,

Silent in matchless grace;

Sing, while you may.