ar the sleeper's sleep,
And stole last looks of his pale face
For memory to keep!
With him the agony was o'er,
And now the pain was ours,
As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose
Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar
From the world's weary strife,
How oft in thought did we again
Live o'er his little life!
His every look--his every word--
His very voice's tone--
Came back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away
And joy has been my lot;
But the one is oft remember'd,
And the other soon forgot.
The gayest hours trip lightest by,
And leave the faintest trace;
But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears
Time never can efface!

THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves;
Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat;
How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,
While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,
And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings;
Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!
In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,
As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,
Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound;
Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!
There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,
Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,
And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!
Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?
Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,
To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,
Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?
Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?
The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,
Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,
With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He
entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small
periodical,