More loud than before Is the cataract's roar, And the furrow'd wave is bright With many a pearl From the shining swirl Of the water's lucid light.

And down below Is the woolly snow Of Niagara's wrathful bed, But the lip of the bold Hath never told The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd Round a maiden's waist On the doleful morrow is seen, And her oozy hair Laves his forehead bare With the waft of the wavy stream.

ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S.

His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.

AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark!

The waves are white and high; And fast the long becalmed clouds Are sailing in the sky.

The merry breeze which wafts them on, And chafes the billow's spray, Will urge thee in thy watery flight: My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, Are spread thy winged sails, To soar above the mountain waves, And scoop their gla.s.sy vales; And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest, Thy azure journey o'er, The shadow of thy folded wings Upon the sunny sh.o.r.e.

Away, away, my gallant bark!

Across the billow's foam; I leave awhile, for ocean's strife, The quiet haunts of home; The green fields of my fatherland For many a stormy bay; The blazing hearth for beacon-light: My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!

Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide, Through pa.s.sion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside; And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams; And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new; But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?

Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears.

Then sing me a song, a good old song-- Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand-- But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more.

And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"

Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, ent.i.tled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS.

in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'-- Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; I thought on my riches, yet f.e.c.kless the treasure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.

I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me, An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life-- For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me-- I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.

I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.