e literature. While in
Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the
Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844
he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for
general circulation.

MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play,
Like a living ocean-child,
Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way
To the billows' music wild;
The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,
And the waves around her leap,
As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,
She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,
She lies with folded wing,
But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,
She moves a joyous thing!
And away she flies all gleaming bright,
While a wave in lofty pride,
Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,
Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath,
And she wanders bold and free,
And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath
Are her mighty minstrelsy!
A queen the crested waves among,
A light and graceful form,
She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,
Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;
From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;
'Tis but when the chords are struck
That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test
Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp,
Gloom and silence bringeth,
Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,
And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud
Draws as Daylight fainteth;
Only on the tearful cloud
God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet