hundred pounds a-year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets
Quiver from thy tender leaves;
No one knows what thoughts between us
Pass in dewy moonlight eves.
Roving memories and fancies,
Travellers upon Thought's deep sea,
Haunt the gay time of our May-time,
O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight,
Pure and kind, and good and fair,
When she laugh'd the ringing music
Rippled through the summer air.
"If you love me--shake the blossoms!"
Thus I said, too bold and free;
Down they came in showers of beauty,
Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the grass, the maiden
Vow'd the vow to love me well;
Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,
No one but myself can tell.
Widely spreads the smiling woodland,
Elm and beech are fair to see;
But thy charms they cannot equal,
O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters
Comes the cry;
Wild are the waves around me--
Dark the sky:
There is no hand to pluck me
From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me,
Clinging low,
I am dash'd by angry billows
To and fro;
I hear death-anthems ringing
In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes
From my lips
As I behold the distant
White-sail'd ships
O'er the white waters gleaming
Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty
And remote,
They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.
The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking,
I can see
The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly:
And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature
But my moan,
The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,
And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages,
Tempest trod;
Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod;
From the deep and troubled waters
I cry to _Thee_, my God!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pi