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Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every Creature, Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks, Spreads with such a living grace O’er my little Laura's face; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay,

Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
--Pleas’d-by any random toy;
By a Kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the extacy,
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take
Even from things by sorrow wrought
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

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THE SEVEN SISTERS,

OR

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNÒRIE.

Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All Children of one Mother:
I could not say in one short day
What love they bure each other,
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,...
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the Wars so well. .
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave. To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand : The gallant ship is borne ; The Warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the Band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 'The Solitude of Binnorie.. .

Beside a Grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, · The Seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like Fawns reposing. But now; upstarting with affright At noise of Man and Steed,

Away they fly to left to right -
Of your fair household, Father Knight,.
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over Hill and Hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.
Cried they, “ Your Father loves to roam :
Enough for him to find
The empty House when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets, comb,
For us be fair and kind!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

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