SMILE THROUGH THY TEARS.

The debtor when stripp'd by some rogue of his all,

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'S turn'd adrift on the world, former friends seem his foes; While the caitiff who robb'd him, smiles over his fall,

And fattens, though drench'd from the dunghill he rose! Even those who were dear

When prosperity's ear

Only heard of your worth, nor your foibles could trace— Revile, slight, and shun ye,

In misery dun ye,

When the shorn-beams of favour glance cold in your face.

SMILE THROUGH THY TEARS.

SMILE through thy tears, like the blush moss-rose,
When the warm rains fall around it;

Thy fond heart now may seek repose,
From the rankling griefs that wound it.

For a parent's loss the eye may fill,

And

weep till the heart runs over; But the pang is longer and deeper still,

That wails o'er the grave of a lover.

Smile through thy tears, like the pale primrose,
When the zephyrs play around it;

In me let thy trembling heart repose,

I will ward the sorrows that wound it.
Ah! vain were the wish, such love to crave,
As warmed thy maiden bosom;

Ere Henry slept, where the alders wave,
O'er the night-shade's drooping blossom.

232 WELLBURN'S MARY.-PRINCE CHARLIE.

WELLBURN'S MARY.

I mark'd the calm on her young fair face,
As grief's rude storm passed o'er it;
But the ebbing smile had left no trace
Of struggles that rush'd before it.

Each grief has its day:-love weep them away,
As the shower on April's blossom

Balms the drooping flower, till the sun's bright ray
Drinks the tears from its virgin bosom.

The flush o'er her fair face went and came,
As I show'd her a true-love token;
I whisper'd hope, and the young god came,
But her virgin heart was broken!
In Wellburn garden, the white lilies bloom,
Eke the rose round the jessamine's twining;
But they wither'd o'er Wellburn Mary's tomb,
Ere the red winter sun there was shining.

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PRINCE CHARLIE.

THOUGH bonnie raise the winter moon,
Yet weir an' strife rang wild aroun',
As Charlie an' his clans cam' down
Frae England, o'er the border:

PRINCE CHARLIE.

Their dinsom pibrochs' melody,

Brought the tear frae mony an' e'e,
To think what Charlie yet might dree,
Wi' peril for his warder.

His diamond e'en, as black as sloes,
Were laughing o'er his Roman nose;
His cheeks like maiden-blushing rose;
His teeth like ivory showing,

Whene'er he smiled; the prince was there
In's dimpled chin, an' brent brow fair,
An' curling locks of sandy hair,
Beneath his bonnet flowing.

O mother! ye maun come an' see
Their tents, aboon Lord Cassel's lea;
An' tak' them what ye hae to gie,
Afore the morning early:-
For oh! I fear hope's feeble rays,
Looks forward still on better days!
To flee before his kintra's faes,

Can bode sma' gude to Charlie.

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The above Jacobite attempt was suggested after some conversation held with a poor woman, now in the 102d year of her age. In the memorable 1745, when Charles was upon his retreat from England, he pitched his tents for two nights and a day in her neighbourhood; and the second stanza of the foregoing, describes the Chevalier's personal appearance, such as then had been impinged upon her mind, and from which description she never deviates. The fortunes of the prince, so far as they came within the scope of our centarian's observations, are sufficiently interesting, but without our province in this place.

THE SHEPHERD AND ECHO.

Dixerat, hic quis adest? Et adest, responderat echo.
Inde latet silvis, nulloque in monte videtur.-OVID.

YOUNG echo lived within a rock,

Alone, and far from human dwelling; Where torrents wild the stillness broke, All silence from the glens dispelling.

Her wild and never-ceasing wail,
Resounding steep, and greenwood over,

Drew a shepherd from the vale,

Whose sighings told, he was a lover.

He sought her long through glen and dale,
Aye she answer'd to his calling,
But never came; the rustling gale

Drown'd her sighs in the water's falling.

She must be fair-for her voice is sweet,
Sad-for its sounds are steep'd in sorrow:

O maiden! leave this lone retreat,

And hie with me to the plains to-morrow.

But echo laugh'd till the welkin rung,

And flew on the breeze the greenwood over, While birds their sweetest warblings sung, Where pleased and grieved, reclined the lover.

BOWERDALE.

He sought the grotto, ranged the grove,
The sedgy brook, the winding alley;
Then sighing, call'd again, " My love!"
"My love!"-rung back along the valley.

Like pilgrim, to the vale again

His wandering footsteps onward bore him; Her voice came laughing through the glen, Then died in breezy whispers o'er him..

'Tis a wild-goose chase!-I'll seek my home,
And woo a maid less coy-deceiving-
While echo answer'd, "Seek my home!"
And left the lass-lorn shepherd grieving.

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BOWERDALE.

Air.-"THE YOUNG MAY MOON."

THE Woodlark sang through fair Bowerdale,
His wild notes rang over wood and vale,
But Helen, the flower,

Left alone in the bower,

Where I parted from her, was cold and pale.
I woo'd her there, I had loved her long;
For her I had left the city's throng;

All the world behind,

I gave to the wind;

With Helen to live, and to love alone.

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