But I was sae hungry for love, Jeannie,

The world was sae bleak, and sae wide,
And I had nae father or mither to care,
Nae brother or sister to chide

Sae when into our twa young hearts, Jeannie,
Cam the king called Love, to reign,
We forgot a lady o' high degree

Waited him over the main !

A bride the old Laird had betrothed him to
When the twa were babes, I ween,
For she had a title, and gold, and lands,
But her face he had never seen!

Alas! and alas! for us baith, Jeannie,

That all through the simmer's bloom
We saw not her beautiful English hands
Were digging our love a tomb!

For as cruel as death that strikes out life,
Cam his father's stern decree,

He must bring his bride ere the autumn waned,
From that land across the sea!

Ah! God o' the desolate help us, Jean!
Wi'a face as white as snaw,

And eyes that were wild wi' t' lurid fire,
He kissed me and sailed awa!

And ever and ever since that sad hour
When the fatal message sped,

And the ship set sail for the English coast,
I ha'e wished that I were dead!

Dead! And shut out frae the glens in bloom, The withered leaves in their fall,

And shut from the sight o' the ship that brings
That fair young bride to the hall!

Far better.-far better for him, and me,
Would it be if the brackens green
Grew tenderly over my head and heart,
And the gowans blossomed between !

And sae I am gangin awa, Jeannie,-
I'm gangin slowly awa,

To the narrow house that they tell us of
Where "there is nae room for twa!"

Yet unto the rune o' the waves o' Death
My thoughts in one measure run,
"Forever and ever throughout the world
The will o' the Lord be done."

Several poets have accounted in their rhymes for the robin's crimson breast, but there is no more tender legend with regard to it than is found in these lines, written quite a long time ago, unique in the thought they embody, quaintly suggestive in the reflection with which they end.

TO THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

On fair Brittannia's isle, bright bird,
A legend strange is told of thee,—
'T is said thy blithesome song was hushed
While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary,
Bowed 'neath the sins of all mankind,

And humbled to the very dust

By the vile cros, while viler man

Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just.
Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down
By our transgressions, faint, and weak,
Crushed by an angry Judge's frown,

And agonies no words can speak,—
'T was then, dear bird, the legend says
That thou, from out His crown, didst tear
The thorns, to lighten the distress,

And ease the pain that He must bear,

While pendant from thy tiny beak

The gory points thy bosom pressed,

And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood
The sober brownness of thy breast!
Since which proud hour for thee and thine,
As an especial sign of grace

God pours like sacramental wine

Red signs of favor o'er thy race!
The tale is touching. True or false

We know not, but we see a fire,
Blood-red, is burning o'er thy heart;—
And hear thy liquid notes aspire
To cleave the very heavens. So sing
Thy joyous song of praise, while we
Listen, and learn to trust in Him

Who cares for even such as thee!

We have already devoted considerable space to Mrs. Norton's productions; yet should hardly do her justice did we not reproduce in full, the finest poem, in many respects, we have yet seen from her pen, which was published in The Galaxy about three years ago :

MY KINGDOM.

Crown me a Queen,-ye who love me best,-
Crown me a Queen, though I stand
Unknown, in a realm where no subjects
Shout my fame over the land.
Bring me a scepter and purple robe,
Put the seal ring on my hand!

Where, do you ask, does my empire lie?
Are all its fortresses strong?

Have I no fear that marauders

May pillage its wealth before long?
No,-for my realm is intangible,—
Only a-kingdom of song!

The manifold gifts of the Universe
Minister unto my need,

Its Unities, and its Diversities,
Up to the Beautiful lead,

Till my soul, filled with the harmony,
Sings like Pan's musical reed!

It sings with a passionate fervor,

A wonderful rhythm and stress,

It sings till the strength, and the sweetness,
Make my heart faint with excess;

But the beautiful strains die unwritten,-
No language their soul can express!

Can

put any music on canvas?

Or paint the perfume of the rose

Can I bring you the mists from the mountain Or show how the violet blows

Can I give back in all of their whiteness

The crystals of last winter's snows?

Neither can I, with utmost endeavor,
Unspeakable sweetnesses fling
Into limited human expression,

Else infinite music would ring
Its very soul out, in the simplest
Or saddest of songs that I sing!

But I shall be taught what to carol;--
Invisible spirits of air

Will paint flowers for my inspiration,

And teach the young birds when and where To warble the songs I may copy

Because neither studied nor rare,

The sprite of the wind harps shall order
The south and the west wind to play
A symphony, matching the music

Composed by the sweet water fay,

While bees, birds and brooks shall be rivals
In teaching me what I must say !

The classical Thespis shall tell me

How tragical numbers find tongue,
And Thebes flings her widest gates open
To give me what Pindar has sung;
While the glorious Queen of Song-Sappho,
Sings, throned the monarchs among !

Anacreon's notes from Ionia

Ring, mellowed with time, from the lyre,-
I hear the grand strains of blind Homer,—
Feel Petrarch's invincible fire;

While on floods of song, ancient and modern
My soul rises higher and higher!

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