I feel not now as then I felt ;

The sunshine of my heart is o'er;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me in the days of yore.

But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence
In all thy guileless innocence:

One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee,
In reverential piety,-

(For childish faults forgiveness crave)-
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave.

I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony;
I felt not what my parents felt,--
The doubt-the terror-the distress;-
Nor vainly for my brother knelt;—

My soul was spared that wretchedness:
One sentence told me, in a breath,
My brother's illness and his death!

And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gayety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crush'd affection cease to smart.
Again I join'd the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;

No more I wept my brother's lot,-
His image was almost forgot;
And every deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.

The well-known morn I used to greet

With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and raptures sweet In every eye but mine were gleaming; But I, amidst that youthful band

Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies!

I loved my home but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it now was not.
The pleasures of my home were fled;
My brother slumber'd with the dead.

I drew near to my father's gate;
No smiling faces met me now:

I enter'd, all was desolate-
Grief sat upon my mother's brow;

And years have pass'd—and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;

And cheerful is my mother's brow;

My father's eye has lost its gloom:
And years have pass'd-and death has laid
Another victim by thy side!

With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee he died.
Bless'd are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;

And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er!
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!

My boyish days are nearly gone;

My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,-
And life will take a darker hue

From ills my brother never knew:
And I have made me bosom friends,

And loved, and link'd my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,

As mine was blended with my brother's!
When years of rapture glided by,

The spring of life's unclouded weather,

Our souls were knit, and thou and I,

My brother, grew in love together;

The chain is broke that bound us then;

When shall I find its like again?

HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee,
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace,

To the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;
For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be—
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my glow of youth is o'er;
And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no more;
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my soul at last,
And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship pass'd;
Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! though I know that not for me
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by,
Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye;

Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassic, here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I meet thee in the throng
Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along,

I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form

As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm;
And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee,
And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a giddy dance with thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at even,
When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven;
I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves,
As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn leaves;
In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall often think of thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my sad and lonely hours,
The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers:
Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye,
Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky,
Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree,
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie !-here's a parting health to thee!
May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me!
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!
And whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be-
Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!

ELIZA COOK. 1817.

ELIZA COOK, the daughter of a respectable tradesman in the borough of Southwark, was born in the year 1817. She very early gave manifestations of poetic talent, which were warmly encouraged by a sympathizing mother. In her eighth year she left London, and went to reside at St. Leonard's Forest, near Horsham, Sussex, where her father had taken a farm. Here the germs of her poetic enthusiasm were nourished and developed by the delightful scenery and poetic associations of the place. Here she drew inspiration from the objects of her daily walks -the "Old Water Mill," and the "Old Mill Stream;" and in the same vicinity was the "Old Barn" and the "Farm Gate,"-themes just suited to her graphic pen. It was in the daily contemplation of these scenes, and the mingling of their features with her childish sports, that the earnest love of simple things was nurtured in her heart, and that relish for the true and beautiful engendered which gives such life and vigor to her Saxon verse. Her first writings she gave to the

public before she was twenty years of age, sending anonymously a "Song" to the "Dispatch" newspaper, with which the editor was so much pleased, that he noticed it in very commendatory terms, and requested more from the same writer. After this, she sent a poem, each, to the "Literary Gazette," the "Metropolitan," and the "New Monthly," and was written to by each of the respective editors, who, from the style of her writings, judged her to be one of their own sex. So confident, indeed, was Mr. Jerdan of the " Literary Gazette" that they were from a masculine pen, that he praised them highly in his paper, as the productions of a gentleman who reminded him of "the style and power of Robert Burns."

Her deep love for her mother is one of the prominent features of Miss Cook's poetry, which closely links itself with her own inner life. The holy breathings of filial love, the devotion, reverence, and gratitude with which she breathes a name so hallowed, and embodies the recollection of one so dear to her heart, form one of the most delightful traits of her poetry. These may be seen in the "Stanzas to a Bereaved One," "Mother, Come Back,” and in the touching verses of

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I love it! I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs;

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near

The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die and teach me to live:

She told me shame would never betide

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.

Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;

And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it! and cannot tear

m-chair.

Of her works, the story of "Melaia" is the chief. It is an Eastern tale, of the attachment of a dog to his master; and, besides the generous tone and kindly teaching of the story, it abounds in fine passages of poetic power and noble sentiment.

Miss Cook has built up for herself a name which will be uttered for generations to come with feelings of love and admiration. The characteristics of her poetry are, great freedom, ease, and heartiness of sentiment and expression; and she makes you feel at once that her whole heart is in all she writes, that she gives full utterance to the depths of her soul-a soul that is in sympathy with all that is pure and true. She evidently has no regard for conventionalism, but gives, without fear, her own actual thoughts, and yet never transcends the limits of taste and delicacy.

A volume of Miss Cook's poems appeared in England in 1840, and was republished here in 1844, under the title of "Melaia, and other Poems." But it is in her capacity of journalist that she now almost eclipses her fame as a poet,"Eliza Cook's Journal" being one of the most popular and widely circulated periodicals in England.

THE WORLD.

Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
Yet, yet there is bloom on the waste;

Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.

We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay,
And note all the shades of our lot;

But the rich rays of sunshine that brighten our way,
Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot.

Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright,
Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls;
But dwell on the beauties, the glories, the might,
As much as the shipwrecks and shoals.

How thankless is he who remembers alone
All the bitter, the drear, and the dark;

Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone,
Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark?

We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part;
But, in meeting the dear one again,

Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart
Which outbalances ages of pain?

Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss,

When the soul, in its fulness of love,

Would waver if bidden to choose between this

And the paradise promised above?

Though the eye may be dimm'd with its grief-drop awhile,
And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear-

Yet pensive, indeed, is that face where the smile

Is not oftener seen than the tear!