FIELD FLOWERS.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse ye, 'tis true,
Yet wildings of nature, I doat upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountain and echoing streams, And of broken glades breathing their balm, While the deer were seen dancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

E'en now what affections the violet awakes;
What lov'd little islands twice seen in the lakes,
Can the wild water lily restore :

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowey brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom,

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship! too oft thou'rt but a name; Too oft I've found thee so,

When sad misfortune bow'd my frame, Thy aid thou didst forego.

I've found thee fickle, insincere,
No succour would impart;

Oft hast thou forced the briny tear,
And wrung my aching heart.

No more thy syren voice I'll hear,
From thee I wish to sever;

No more to thee direct my prayer,
But banish thee for ever.

No more, false friend, I'll seek thy aidNo more by thee I'll be betrayed.

ENIGMA.

Come now, my muse, extend thy aid,
While I attempt to sing,

While verdure crowns both hill and mead,
And vales with music ring.

O'er hills and plains behold me fly,

O'er continent and ocean,

While clouds appear in yon bright sky,
And fly with rapid motion.

There's not a creature on this ball,
But I attend thro' life;

On rich on poor, on great on small,
Quite free from noise or strife.

Where'er you roam, or ride or walk,
What ever thing you do,
Whether you sing, laugh or talk,
I mimic well 'tis true.

With one hint more I'll close my lay,
You'll soon my name define;

I point to man the time of day,

When glorious Sol doth shine.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott used to repeat the following striking lines, as an ancient inscription found at Melrose Abbey:

"The earth goeth on the earth, glistening in gold; The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; The earth builds on the earth castles and towers; The earth says to the earth-" All shall be ours!"

THE PARTED.

Though nothing can be more honourable than opulence acquired by industry, it often happens in a large manufacturing town, that individuals spring from a penurious origin to the possession of enormous wealth, without acquiring those generous habits of thinking and feeling with alone can render affluence respectable. Pinched and scorned in their early days, they contract a notion that the opposite of all evil is in the mere exemption from poverty, that all men who do not make money are either imbecile or dissolute, and that they are in no danger of offending against any of the rules of life, if they only keep their goll from waste.

Old James Bisset was a person of this kind, who flourished a considerable number of years ago in Glasgow a city which, though containing many men who have alike gained fortunes by honourable means, and enjoyed them in a creditable nanner, must necessarily