Ah! pilot, dangers often met, And thou hast known these raging waves It is not apathy, he cried, That gives this strength to me; Fear not; but trust in Providence, Wherever thou mayst be. On such a night the sea engulfed And such, perhaps, may be my fate, Fear not; but trust in Providence, Wherever thou mayst be. I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay: I'd be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away. ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL! SHADES of evening, close not o'er us, Morn, alas! will not restore us Sunny spots where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover, Isle of Beauty, fare thee well! 'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light; Who will fill our vacant places? Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us, Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing, fondly, fare thee well! When the waves are round me breaking, And my eye in vain is seeking I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'D be a butterfly born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings. Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! naught but misery brings: THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. UPON the hill he turned To take a last fond look, Of the valley and the village church So familiar to his ear, And the soldier leaned upon his sword And wiped away a tear. Beside that cottage porch A girl was on her knees, But he paused to bless her, as she knelt, He turned and left the spot, Oh, do not deem him weak; In danger's dark career, LONG, LONG AGO. TELL me the tales that to me were so dear, Long, long ago-long ago. Now you are come, all my grief is removed, Do you remember the path where we met, Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised, Long, long ago-long, long ago; You by more eloquent lips have been praised, I wore my bridal robe, And I rivalled its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hairHow I hated their brightness! He called me by my name, As the bride of anotherOh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother! And once again we met And a fair girl was near him; He smiled and whispered lowAs I once used to hear him; She leaned upon his arm Once 'twas mine, and mine only; I wept, for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely. And she will be his bride! At the altar he'll give her The love that was too pure For a heartless deceiver; The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smotherOb, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother! DECK NOT WITH GEMS. DECK not with gems that lovely form for me, I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair. How oft, when half in tears, hast thou beguiled The sorrow from my heart, and I have smiled. Oh! formed alike my tears and smiles to share, I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair. WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE? WHY don't the men propose, mamma?" It is no fault of yours, mamma, Yet, oh! they won't propose! I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, For coronets and eldest sons I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some distingué beau But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, I've tried to win by languishing And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books, and talked of them As if I'd read them through! With hair cropped like a man, I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, I threw aside the books, and thought I felt convinced that men preferred Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, I really thought my time was come, And what is to be done, mamma? I really have no time to lose, At balls I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why won't the men propose, mamma? Why won't the men propose? DAVID MACBETH MOIR. DAVID MACBETH MOIR was born at Musselburgh, Scotland, January 5, 1798. He was educated in the grammar-school of his native town, studied medicine in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year received a surgeon's diploma. He entered upon medical practice in Musselburgh, and continued it all his life. Moir had written poetry at the age of fourteen, and in 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." He was a frequent contributor to "Constable's Edinburgh Magazine," and became a regular contributor to "Blackwood" soon after its establishment, signing his poems with the Greek letter A, whence he became popularly known as Delta. In 1824 he published "The Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems," and in 1843 another volume of poems entitled "Domestic Verses." In 1851 he delivered in Edinburgh six lectures on "Poetical Literature of the past Half-Century," which were subsequently published in a volume. He also wrote in prose "The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh," originally published in "Blackwood," and was the author of several medical works. Dr. Moir died at Dumfries, where he had gone to rest from overwork, July 6, 1851, leaving a widow and eight children. He was tall, with a florid complexion and a serious cast of countenance; a diligent and methodical worker, simple and kindly in all his ways. His best known poem is the elegy on a child who had given himself the name of "Casa Wappy." A collected edition of Moir's poems in two volumes, edited with a memoir by Thomas Aird, was published posthumously. CASA WAPPY. AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy The realms where sorrow dare not come, Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, Despair was in our last farewell, Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathomed agony; Casa Wappy! Thou wert a vision of delight, Beauty embodied to our sight- So dear to us thou wert, thou art Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, This moon beheld thee blithe and gay; Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Do what I may, go where I will, There dost thou glide before me still- I feel thy breath upon my cheek- Methinks thou smil'st before me now, The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light- The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Even to the last, thy every wordTo glad to grieve |