Why seek this lonely place?

She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here, Widow'd one, widow'd one-- Nay, wipe away that tear, She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away, She 's at rest, she 's at rest, In everlasting day, With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there, All are past, all are past; That sigh summ'd up her care, 'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see, Sister dear, sister dear; That earth holds nought for thee, Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark, Haste away, haste away; Corruption is at work-- Soulless clay! soulless clay!

The lamp hath ceased to burn, Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame; Let dust to dust return, Whence it came, whence it came.

To thy chamber, sister dear; There to G.o.d, there to G.o.d, Bend humble and sincere, 'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

Prayer heals the broken heart-- He is kind, He is kind; Each bruised and bleeding part He will bind, He will bind.

Weep not for her that 's gone-- Time will fly, time will fly-- Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one 'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts, being composed in his sixteenth year.

MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht, Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock-- I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read; The lads and the la.s.ses around me a' flock, And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan', "Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en?

Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?"

But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire, Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre, She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock, And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang, And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang, Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke, For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.

JAMES HENDERSON.

A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, ent.i.tled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an East India merchant.

THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pa.s.s'd, On the distant sh.o.r.e of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last.

And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's gla.s.sy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

He left the land of his childhood fair, With hope in his glowing breast, With visions bright as the summer's light, And dreams by his fancy blest.

But death look'd down with a chilling frown As he stood on that distant sh.o.r.e, And he leant his head on the stranger's bed, Till the last sad pang was o'er.

Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look, O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung; And the words were cold as the wintry wold, That fell from each heedless tongue.

Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye The solace of pity gave, While the moments pa.s.s'd till he breathed his last, To sleep in the silent grave.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime And his happy hours were pa.s.s'd, On the distant sh.o.r.e of a foreign clime The wanderer breathed his last.

And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave, By the brooklet's gla.s.sy brim; And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer, And the dirge of its evening hymn.

THE SONG OF TIME.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pa.s.s away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day.

The lordly tower, and the battled wall, The hall, and the holy fane, In ruin lie while I wander by, Nor rise from their wreck again.

I light the rays of the orient blaze, The glow of the radiant noon; I wing my flight with the sapphire night, And glide with the gentle moon.

O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse Where the proud bark bounds away; And I join the stars in their choral dance Round the golden orb of day.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, And the nations pa.s.s away, Like visions bright of the dreamy night, That die with the dawning day.

The sceptre sinks in the regal hall, And still'd is the monarch's tread, The mighty stoop as the meanest droop, And sleep with the nameless dead.

THE HIGHLAND HILLS.