POEMS BY THE EDITOR.

MY NATIVE GLEN.

En unquam patrios, longo post tempore fines,
Post aliquot mea regna videns, mirabor aristas?

VIRGIL.

MELLOW thy notes, fond bird! thy small shrill voice,
Without a pause since morn, has rung along
The echoing glen;-the listening fawns rejoice,
Around me, at thy wild intrusive song.

My footsteps linger where thy melody

Floats soft around the gay liburnum's shade; Whose yellow drooping garlands round the tree, Diffuse fresh odours where thy songs pervade,

And die away in echoes;-mazing round
The waving forest boughs of glossiest green,
In smiling summer's verdure; bless'd the sound,
That wakes delight, and gladdens all the scene!

Here from the burning rays of noontide's sun,
Beneath the tangling hazel boughs again,
I sit me down, where the rippling waters run,
In mournful cadence past me throughout the glen.

Then eddying round yon woodbine-faced defile, A beaming mirror leaps the white cascade, Bright glancing to the sunshine's radiant smile, Showering its spray around the coppiced glade,

Where hoary wild-thyme cushions o'er the rocks,
"Tis fair to view in such a lonely scene,
The stately tod-flax wave her yellow locks,
And starry-saxifrage around the green.

And sun-dew, with the whortle-berry's bell;
Like hectic maid, when love lights up her smile;

And laughing eye-bright, with the asphodel,
And rose-bay-willow, on the rock's defile;

And dusky crane's-bill blushing by her side,
And gaudy fox-glove's drooping purple bells,
And nodding hyacinth, the wild wood's pride,
And birds-eye-primrose, beauty of the dells.

The clustering hawthorn, fondling o'er the rose,
Shading the modest violet in its turn;
While the bright champion all her beauty shows,
Above the sparkling bosom of the burn.

MY NATIVE GLEN.

Unnumber'd flowers bestrewn by nature's hand,
In fair luxuriance bud and bloom around;
While fancy reigns, and smiles upon the land,
Above, and round this consecrated ground.

My native glen! from you, when far away,

My dreams will still inhale your fresh perfume, Where through the woodruff's fragrancy I stray, Or linger round the yellow banks of broom.

At morn, when all around is hush'd in sleep,
Ere the early sun dispels the morning dews,
I leave the haunts of men in silence deep,

Within your

dark and leafy dells to muse;

Or wander o'er the bushy mountain's brow,
Around the amphitheatre of woods;
Sombering the landscape in the vale below,
Where brawling comes the voice of rushing floods

Unseen, while yet the wreathing mists impend,
Curling above the lonesome green wood's reign;
While far below the foaming streams descend,
Leaping from rock to lin, to reach the plain.

'Tis sweet in such a lovely wilderness,

Ere sleeping flowers their dewy breasts unfold To the morning's sun, the tufted lawn to press, And hear the matin song ring through the wold.

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In scenes like these, remote from human bield,
Oh could I pass the vale of life alone,
In peace with th' calm, a rural life might yield,
And hail yon moss-crown'd cavern as my own.

Fond recollections! glens, and woods, and all
Ye kindred ties that long and firm have been
Twining around this heart, when I recall

Your dear remembrance, like a morning's dream.

On some far distant day, when seas between

Us lie; Time's signet, while the warm tears glow, Shall ne'er efface you, nor this smiling scene, Where all my hopes concentrate, ebb, and flow.

Mellow thy notes, sweet bird! the dingle rings

Thy warblings louder, wouldst thou wert at rest, And roosting on the spray: Each note thou sings, Thrills sadness through this throbbing fever'd breast.

THE yellow Aconite from winter's urn,

With many an early spring-flower in her train, Starring the landscape, welcome spring's return, Awakening vegetation o'er the plain: