Flower of the solitary place!
Gray Ruin's golden crown!
That lendest melancholy grace
To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,
By strife or storm decayed;
And fillest up each envious rent
Time's canker-tooth hath made.

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,
Where, in war's stormy day,
The Douglases stood forth of yore,
In battle's grim array:

The clangour of the field is fled,

The beacon on the hill

No more through midnight blazes red—
But thou art blooming still!

Whither hath fled the choral band
That filled the abbey's nave?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand
O'er many a level grave;

In the belfry's crevices the dove

Her young

brood nurseth well,

Whilst thou, lone flower, dost shed above A sweet decaying smell.

In the season of the tulip cup,

When blossoms clothe the trees, How sweet to throw the lattice up,

And scent thee on the breeze.
The butterfly is then abroad,
The bee is on the wing,

And on the hawthorn by the road
The linnets sit and sing.

Sweet wall-flower, sweet wall-flower!

Thou conjurest up to me

Full many a soft and sunny hour
Of boyhood's thoughtless glee,
When joy from out the daisies grew,
In woodland pastures green,

And summer skies were far more blue
Than since they e'er have been.

Now autumn's pensive voice is heard
Amid the yellow bowers,

The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the Queen of Flowers!
He sings on the laburnum trees,
Amid the twilight dim,

And Araby ne'er gave the breeze
Such scents as thou to him.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,
The rose is summer's guest;
Bland are thy charms when these decay,
Of flowers, first, last, and best!
There may be gaudier on the bower,
And statelier on the tree,

But wall-flower, loved wall-flower,

Thou art the flower for me!

De Moir.

A SCHOOL BOY'S CHRISTMAS CAROL.

LAST night I lay a sleeping,

When all my prayers were said,
With my guardian angel keeping
His watch above my head;
I heard his sweet voice carolling
Full softly in my ear,

A song for Christian boys to sing
And Christian men to hear.

Thy body be at rest, dear boy!
Thy soul be free from sin;

I'll shield thee from the worlds annoy,
And breathe pure thoughts within.

The holy Christmas tide is nigh,

The season of Christ's birth;

Glory be to God on high!

And peace to men on earth.

Myself, and all the heavenly host,
Were keeping watch of old,
And saw the shepherds at their post,
And all the sheep in fold.
Then told we with a joyful cry
The tidings of Christ's birth;
Glory be to God on high,

And peace to men on earth.

The shepherds heard at Bethlehem
Glad tidings of great joy,

Of a Saviour who was born for them,
And born for thee, dear boy.
They saw him in a manger lie,
So lowly was his birth;

Glory be to God on high

And peace to men on earth.

And thou shalt now the self-same sight
In holy dreams behold;

I'll sing the self-same song to-night,
Which angels sang of old.
And it shall soothe thy secret sigh,

And mingle in thy mirth;

Glory be to God on high,

And peace to men on earth.

Though many a rule be taught in school, Example is the best ;

One boy of truth and spotless youth,

How doth he guide the rest! Then take a lesson with thy eye,

And look on Jesus's birth.

Glory be to God on high,

And peace to men on earth.

He bowed to all His father's will,
And meek He was, and lowly,

And, year by year, His thoughts were still

Most innocent and holy.

He did not come to strive or cry,

But ever from His birth,

Gave glory unto God on high

And peace to men on earth.

Like Him be true, like Him be pure,
Like Him be full of love;

Seek not thine own, and so secure
Thine own that is above.

And still when Christmas tide draws nigh,
Sing thou of Jesus's birth;

Glory be to God on high

And peace to men on earth.

M.

REJOICING IN HOPE.

I THANK Thee I am not mine own,
But have to live in Thee alone,
Each passing day, each passing hour,
To live in Thy great power,
Whate'er to-day, to-morrow brings,
'Tis all Thine hand, Thine orderings.

'Tis blest to breathe in Thy sure love-
On Thee-in Thee to live and move-
'Tis blest each day to still live on
In Thy sustaining Son-

Whate'er may come, it is all Thine,
To love Thee and obey be mine.

Onward still-and on I go
Rejoicing-be it wind or snow,
Sunshine or shadow-Thou the way
Marshallest may I obey :

Receive this offering which I bring,
'Tis Thou that givest me to sing.

Williams.

ANGEL VISITS.

WHAT mean these strange unearthly sounds,
That break the stilly hour of night?
As though some fairy harp were touched,
By hands unseen to mortal sight;

And as around my couch they float,
What comfort hangs on every note.

There strange mysterious harmonies,
(That are at times to mortals given,)
These notes that consolation bring,

They are the minstrelsy of Heaven;
And as they trance the listening ear,
It seems that Heaven's whole choir is near.

No fairy harp is it—but music sweet,
Of spirit forms-of heavenly birth,
Those blest angelic companies,

That hover round the things of earth,
Alike in dark-and sunny day-

And cheer man on his heavenward way.

W. B. Flower.

THE DEAD.

THE dead alone are great! While heavenly plants abide on earth, The soil is one of dewless dearth; But when they die, a mourning shower Comes down and makes their memories flower With odours sweet though late.

The dead alone are fair!

While they are with us, strange lines play

Before our eyes, and chase away

God's light: but let them pale and die,
And swell the stores of memory—
There is no envy there.

The dead alone are dear!

While they are here, long shadows fall
From our own forms, and darken all:
But when they leave us, all the shade
Is round our own sad footsteps made,

And they are bright and clear.