sequently published; but it was not until he produced his "con's Wake" that his fame was established. He became a contributor to "Blackwood's Magazine," and John Wilson, by introducing him frequently into the "Noctes," put the key-stone upon his popularity. Hogg wrote some magnificent songs. His taste, however, led him more to romance and legendary story: to fairy lore and the realms of fancy. These subjects he treated with the feeling of a poet and the imagination of a painter. His "Kilmeny" is a fairy tale worthy of Spenser. If he had not the strength of Burns, he was more playful and inventive, and as a master of rhythm he was unequalled. He died at Altrive Lake, on the Yarrow, November, 1835.] STRANGER of Heaven! I bid thee hail! Broad pennon of the King of Heaven! Bright herald of the eternal throne! Whate'er portends thy front of fire, Or Where hast thou roamed these thousand years? O! on thy rapid prow to glide! To coast through fields of air with thee, To brush the embers from the sun, Where other moons and planets roll! Eccentric as thy course on high, And airy as thine ambient beam! And long, long may thy silver ray THE MINISTRY OF MAY. T.K. HERVEY. [Thomas Kibble Hervey was a native of Manchester, born 1804. For many years he was the editor of the Athenæum. He was a frequent contributor to the annuals, and published "Australia, and other Poems," 1824; "The Poetical Sketch Book," 1829, "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," 1832, "The English Helicon," 1841, &c. Died 1859.] THE earth is one great temple, made For worship everywhere; And its flowers are the bells, in glen and glade, That ring the heart to prayer. A solemn preacher is the breeze, For the city bell takes seven days To reach the townsman's ear, A worship with the cowslip born, For March is Nature's Sabbath morn- Out, then, into her holy ways! The lark is far on high; Oh! let no other song than thine Be sooner in the sky! If beauty to the beautiful Itself be gladness, given, No happier being should move than thou With thee 'tis spring, as with the world,- And clouds that gather round the heart And in thy spirit, one by one, The flowers are gathering to the sun. Away unto the woodland paths! And yield that heart of thine To hear the low, sweet oracles Truths such as guide the comet cars Or in their beauty light the stars As through the cloud the star- The roses making low reply. For the meanest wild-bud breathes to swell, Upon immortal ears So hear it, thou, in grove or dell !— The music of the spheres. AN OLD MAN'S IDYLL. RICHARD REALF. [Richard Realf was born at Uckfield, in Sussex, in 1835. His poetical talents attracting the attention of a lady at Brighton, in whose service he resided, she was induced to publish for him a volume of his poems, "Guesses at the Beautiful," by which he obtained some local repute. Since then he appears to have led a roving life; he was with John Brown at Harper's Ferry, was reported dead, returned to England, and after being seen at several places in his native county, suddenly disappeared.] By the waters of Life we sat together, Of the beautiful early summer weather, When skies were purple and breath was praise- By the rivers of Life we walked together, And lighter than any linnet's feather The burdens of Being on us weighed. And love's sweet miracles o'er us threw A sound that seemed like a marriage chime. In the gardens of Life we strayed together, In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro Who was with us, and what was round us, O the riches love doth inherit! Laugh at the footsteps of decay. Harms of the world have come unto us, And we hear the tread of the years move by, But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what God wills. 1 So we sit by our household fires together, And now the valleys are laid in snow. GILDEROY. THOMAS CAMPBELL. [Born, 1777; died, 1844.] THE last, the fatal hour is come, The bell has toll'd-it shakes my heart- And must my Gilderoy depart To bear a death of shame ? No bosom trembles for thy doom, Oh! Gilderoy, bethought we then Your locks they glittered to the sheen, Ah! little thought I to deplore Ye cruel, cruel, that combined |