This golden lamp shines clear and bright,
When the world looks dark and doure,
It brightens our morning, noon, and night,
And gladdens our gloamin' hour.

WILLIAM WILSON.

William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of
Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in
indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour.
While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions
were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested
herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal
merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to
write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On
her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of
Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been
in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He
has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is
well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his
earlier poems were contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and
he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his
own composition.

O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.

O blessing on her starlike e'en,
Wi' their glance o' love divine;
And blessing on the red, red lip,
Was press'd yestreen to mine!

Her braided locks that waved sae light,
As she danced through the lofty ha',
Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,
Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.

O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,
In jewell'd pomp was there;
But she was first among them a',
In peerless beauty rare!

Her bosom is a holy shrine,
Unstain'd by mortal sin,
An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,
On the breast o' the siller linn.

Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note,
By bowery glen or brake?
Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,
By sea or mountain lake?

Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,
The angel's melodie?
Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres
As they swung on their path on hie?

Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,
At the gloamin' hour yestreen;
An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,
I would mak' that maiden my queen.

OH! BLE