TO A WITHERED CURRANT-BUSH.

WHAT is the reason, thou currant-bush,
That there is not a leaf upon thee,

Although there are leaves on the gooseberry-bush,
And leaves on the old apple-tree?

Art thou asleep in thy winter sleep,
Or art thou a stubborn thing

That will not be woo'd by the April sun,
Nor the breath of the gentle Spring?

The heart's-ease looks up, with a smile, in thy face, And the primrose is silent with joy,

And the butterfly flutters from flower to flowe

Like a happy, but truant boy.

The blackbird is singing among the boughs,

And the lark 'neath the rainbow's zone,

All Nature is full of the spirit of joy,

But thou art dejected alone!

Good lack! I hope thou'rt not dead, currant-bush,

For a doleful thing 'twould be,

To have no red currants when August comes,

And no red jelly at tea.

'Twas pleasant to pluck the luxuriant strings
Of the ruby beads that hung

In tempting clusters, ruddy and ripe,
Thy fresh green boughs among.

O! never glanced gems upon beauty's neck
With a richer glow of light,

Than the coral fruit upon thee, currant-bush,
When Autumn's skies were bright.

And I mind me well, six months ago,
How gladsome it was to see

The busy group of sisters small,

Who prattled and danced round thee.

And surely thou wert right pleased, currant-bush,
To be rifled by such sweet fingers;

And of them, perchance, 'midst thy withering boughs,
Some faint remembrance lingers.

Poor bush! I pity thee much;-and more
That thy fate has a touch of my own;

The April sun now shines on us both,
But not as it once has shone.

THE PASTEBOARD TOY.

A SONNET AFTER WORDSWORTH.

ONE day my youngest son, a little boy

Of seven or eight, came smiling up to me,
And said, "Papa! look what a pretty toy
My aunt bought for me last night after tea;"
I look'd, and lo! it was a Highlander,

Cut out in pasteboard very tastefully,
And wearing, that he might look handsomer,

His tassell'd pouch gay dangling at his knee. Between his legs there was a bit of string,

Which when I pull'd, it made me laugh to see How the smart man his little limbs could fling,

"I'll play with this small figure frequently."

EDINBURGH REVISITED.

I WAS a lad, a chubby lad,
A curly-pated lad,

When one forenoon I bade adieu'

To all the friends I had,

And sailed for India, with a heart

Half merry and half sad.

We cross'd the line, and round the Cape

We held our stormy way;

We toss'd beneath a tropic night,

Burn'd 'neath a tropic day,

And not till five long months were past

Cast anchor off Bombay.

Full many a year in Indian land
I broil'd and toil'd full sore;
But finding I was getting rich,
My lot I quietly bore,
Still looking forward to the time
I should return once more.

At last it came, though not until
The bloom of youth was flown,
And till, when looking at my face,
It hardly seem'd my own;

My eye was dim, my brow was bald,
My cheek was whity-brown.

"There's not a man in Edinburgh,"

Thus to myself I said,

"Will know me now, for more than half Of my old friends are dead, And they who still remain will be

As stiff and cold as lead."

With heavy purse, but heavier heart,

I slowly travell❜d home;

And when at length I caught a glimpse

Of high St. Giles's dome,

How freshly back into my heart,

Old thoughts began to come!

"And shall I find thee still the same, Though friends be changed or lost, Auld Reekie! whom my soul held dear On Coromandel's coast?

Thou hast not, queen of many a hill,

Like me been tempest-tost!"