Though from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the

bloom, has fled,

They know their Lady Alice, the Darling of the Dead.

With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they

lay;

Where all things stand unalter'd since the night she fled

away;

But who shall bring to life again her father from the clay? But who shall give her back again her heart of that old day?

FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT, BORN AT MASBROUGH, MARCH 17, 1781, DIED AT GREAT HOUGHTON, NEAR BARNSLEY, DECEMBER 1, 1849, BURIED IN THE VILLAGE

CHURCHYARD OF DARFIELD.

FLOWERS! winter flowers! the child is dead,
The mother cannot speak :

O softly couch his little head,
Or Mary's heart will break!
Amid those curls of flaxen hair
This pale pink ribbon twine,
And on the little bosom there

Place this wan lock of mine.

How like a form in cold white stone

The coffin'd infant lies!

Look, mother, on thy little one!
And tears will fill thine eyes.

She cannot weep--more faint she grows,
More deadly pale and still :

Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill.

Go, search the fields the lichen wet
Bends o'er the unfailing well;
Beneath the furrow lingers yet
The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower,
Where never froze the spring?
A daisy? ah! bring childhood's flower!
The half-blown daisy bring!
Yes, lay the daisy's little head
Beside the little cheek;

O haste the last of five is dead!

The childless cannot speak!

It is strange how such tenderness, pity, and deep womanly love, should be united to so much rugged manliness, sternness, fierceness, and valour, as met together in his (Elliott's) hospitable nature. It was this mixture of opposing elements, however, which gave strength, beauty, and consistency to his character.-Life of Ebenezer Elliott, by January Searle.

CHRISTMAS SONG.

EDWIN WAUGH.

KEEN blows the north wind, the woodlands are bare;
The snow-shroud envelopes the flowerless lea;
The red-breast is wailing the death of the year,
As he cowers his wing in the leafless haw-tree.

Of the song of the throstle, the lark, and the wren,
And summer's blithe music, there stirs not a sound;
And the leaves of the trees that o'ershadow'd the plain,
Lie wither'd and frozen upon the cold ground.

The wild voice of winter is heard in the woods:
And frost-pearls are hanging on every tree;
There's teeth in the air; and the ice-mantled floods
Meander unseen, to the far-distant sea.

The children run in with the snow on their feet,
And make the house ring with an ancient yule-song;

Carols are chaunting in every street,

And Christmas is thrilling on every tongue.

The bright fire is shining upon the clean hearth;
The goodwife is spreading her daintiest cheer;
The house is alive with the music and mirth

That wakes but at Christmas, the pride of the year!

Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
Hang up to the ceiling the misletoe bough,
And let us be merry another yule-time !

SHUN delays, they breed remorse;
Take thy time while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force;

Fly thy fault lest thou repent thee;
Good is best when soonest wrought;
Lingering labours come to nought.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last;

Tide and wind wait no man's pleasure;
Seek not time when time is past;

Sober speed is wisdom's leisure;
Afterwits are dearly bought;

Let thy forewit guide thy thought.

THOU BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, BORN IN PAISLEY, JUNE 3, 1774, DIED MAY 17, 1810.

THOU bonny wood of Craigie Lea!
Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea!

Near thee I pass'd life's early day,

And won my Mary's heart in thee.

The broom, the brier, the birken bush,
Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea;
And a' the sweets that ane can wish
Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.

Far ben thy dark green planting's shade,
The cushat croodles amorously;
The mavis, down thy bughted glade,
Gars echo ring frae every tree.

Awa,' ye thoughtless, murdering gang,
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
They'll sing you yet a canty sang,
Then, O in pity let them be!