Mart of the ties of blood, Mart of the souls of men!

O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood Bought to be sold again, Front of h.e.l.l, to trade therein.

Genius face the giant sin; Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear, Temper'd all in Pity's tear, Every point and every tip, In the blood of Jesus dip; Pierce till the monster reel and cry, Pierce him till he fall and die.

Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell, Power divine and terrible!

See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands, On half the sunken central lands; Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame Sing as they pierce the blot of shame, Till all the dark economies Become the light of blessed skies.

For this, above in wondering love, To Genius shall it first be given, To trace the lines of past designs, All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.

ROBERT WHITE.

Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm.

Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years.

Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications.

In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills; And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills.

The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, Possess o'er me a living spell-- Thou art my native land.

Loved country, when I muse upon Thy dauntless men of old, Whose swords in battle foremost shone-- Thy Wallace brave and bold; And Bruce who, for our liberty, Did England's sway withstand; I glory I was born in thee, Mine own enn.o.bled land!

Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, And conquer'd even in death.

Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, No bigot's stern command Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, My dear devoted land.

And thou hast ties around my heart, Attraction deeper still-- The gifted poet's sacred art, The minstrel's matchless skill.

Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott Have touch'd with magic hand Is in my sight a hallow'd spot, Mine own distinguish'd land!

Oh! when I wander'd far from thee, I saw thee in my dreams; I mark'd thy forests waving free, I heard thy rushing streams.

Thy mighty dead in life came forth, I knew the honour'd band; We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth-- My high exalted land!

Now if the lonely home be mine In which my fathers dwelt, And I can worship at the shrine Where they in fervour knelt; No glare of wealth, or honour high, Shall lure me from thy strand; Oh, I would yield my parting sigh In thee, my native land!

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May Resounds from glen and tree; Yet thy mild voice, I need not say, Is dearer far to me.

And while I thus a garland cull, To grace that brow of thine, My cup of pure delight is full-- A shepherd's life be mine!

Believe me, maid, the means of wealth, Howe'er profuse they be, Produce not pleasure that in health Is shared by you and me!

'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy We find a heart like thine, That objects grateful glad the eye-- A shepherd's life be mine!

O mark, Eliza, how the flowers Around us sweetly spring; And list how in these woodland bowers The birds with rapture sing; Behold that vale whose streamlet clear Flows on in waving line; Can Paradise more bright appear?

A shepherd's life be mine!

Now, dearest, not the morning bright, That dawns o'er hill and lea, Nor eve, with all its golden light, Can charm me without thee.

To feel the magic of thy smile-- To catch that glance of thine-- To talk to thee of love the while, A shepherd's life be mine!

HER I LOVE BEST.

Thou morn full of beauty That chases the night, And wakens all Nature With gladness and light, When warbles the linnet Aloof from its nest, O scatter thy fragrance Round her I love best!

Ye hills, dark and lofty, That near her ascend, If she in her pastime Across thee shall wend, Let every lone pathway In wild flowers be drest, To welcome the footsteps Of her I love best!

Thou sun, proudly sailing O'er depths of the sky, Dispensing beneath thee Profusion and joy, Until in thy splendour Thou sink'st to the west, Oh, gaze not too boldly On her I love best!

Ye wild roving breezes, I charge you, forbear To wantonly tangle The braids of her hair; Breathe not o'er her rudely, Nor sigh on her breast, Nor kiss you the sweet lip Of her I love best!

Thou evening, that gently Steals after the day, To robe with thy shadow The landscape in gray, O fan with soft pinion My dearest to rest!

And calm be the slumber Of her I love best!

Ye angels of goodness, That shield us from ill, The purest of pleasures Awarding us still, As near her you hover, Oh, hear my request!

Pour blessings unnumber'd On her I love best!

THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand-- All dangers now are o'er; No sigh to reach my native land Shall rend my bosom more.

Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main, I mourn'd at Fate's decree; I wish'd but to be back again To Scotland and to thee.

O Ellen, how I prized thy love In foreign lands afar!

Upon my helm I bore thy glove Through thickest ranks of war: And as a pledge, in battle-field, Recall'd thy charms to me; I breath'd a prayer behind my shield For Scotland and for thee.

I scarce can tell how eagerly My eyes were hither cast, When, faintly rising o'er the sea, These hills appear'd at last.

My very breast, as on the sh.o.r.e I bounded light and free, Declared by throbs the love I bore To Scotland and to thee.

Oh, long, long has the doom been mine In other climes to roam; Yet have I seen no form like thine, No sweeter spot than home; Nor ask'd I e'er another heart To feel alone for me: O Ellen, never more I'll part From Scotland and from thee!