Apollo's wing'd bugleman
Cannot contain,

But peals his loud trumpet-call
Once and again!

Then wake thee, my lady-love!

Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest

Bird at this hour.

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

MRS. HEMANS.

Where is the sea?-I languish here

Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,

And flags and breezes free!

I miss the voice of waves-the first
That woke my childish glee :

The measur'd chime, the thundering burst-
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise,

Soft, soft, your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-

Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherds mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute-
Where is my own blue sea.

"A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied Yes, all is fair; but the sea-where is it.'" Mrs. Hemans.]

ARE OTHER EYES.

L. E. L.

VOL. I.

Are other eyes beguiling, Love?
Are other rose-lips smiling, Love?
Ah, heed them not; you will not find
Lips more true or eyes more kind,
Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love?
Are other fond sighs breathing, Love?
Ah, heed them not; but call to mind
The arms, the sighs, you leave behind-
All thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
Breathe not other sighs, Love;

You may find many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love.

T

All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
Fonder still, 'mid sadness, Love;

Though chang'd from all that now thou art,
In shame and sorrow, still thy heart
Would be the world to me, Love.

TO MARY.

O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion,
No passion more holy in mortal can be,
The wind to the hill, and the wave to the ocean,
Are true, but not truer-than I am to thee.

Wherever my footsteps by fancy are taken

I hear thee, I see thee, thine image is there, Though far from thy bosom my love is unshaken, I'm still the true Willy to Mary the fair.

Though round me the wild wintry waters are foaming
And Mary and Heaven are hid from my view,
My heart and my mind they are never a roaming-
I know thou art beauteous, believe thou art true.

Though wafted far from thee, think not thou'rt forsaken

I

pray with the tempest,-send sighs with the airBut live on believing that distance will waken

Even higher love in me for Mary the fair.

THE FISHER'S WELCOME.

THOMAS DOUBLEDAY.

We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear,
An' streams o' mossy Reed,
We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear,
The Teviot an' the Tweed;
An' we will try them ance again
When summer suns are fine,
An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet
For the days o' lang syne.

'Tis mony years sin' first we met
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,
An' clad in his last claes;
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,
Grim Death he heucks us a',
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're ta'en awa'.

For we are hale an' hearty baith,
Tho' frosty are our pows,
We still can guide our fishing graith,

An' climb the dykes and knowes;
We'll mount our creels an' grip our gads,
An thraw a sweeping line;

An we'll hae a plash among the lads,

For the days o' lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,

He's green below the knee,

Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad,
An' gang awa' wi' me.

Come busk your flies, my auld compeer,

We're fidgin' a' fu' fain,

We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year,
An we'll fish her owre again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' night begins to fa',

When ilka chiel maun tell his crack,
We'll crack aboon them a':-
When jugs are toom'd an' coggins wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine,

We've shown we're gude at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.

We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd,
How mony a line we've flung,
How mony aged an' sawmon kill'd

In days when we were young.

We'll gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tune:

They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do

We'll tell them what we've dune.

[From a Fisher's Garland, published in Newcastle, about ten or eleven years back.]