It is the noon of night, — the stars look faint
With their long watching, and the slumbering earth
Heaves not a breath, — the very air is still, —
The waters hush their voices, and the leaf
Hangs silent in the woods. No living thing
Looks on the sleep of nature; — I alone
Sit like a sentinel, and feel how calm
And beautiful is night.

I have thus often sat, and deep in thought
Outwatched the stars; have seen their fires grow dim,
Till the young morning stood upon the hills
Wreathed with her dewy roses. I the while

My spirit was o'er-wearied with the toil
At which the heart revolts; and dark and chill
The world was hushed around me, and all life
Lay in a deathlike slumber. I alone
Was wakeful, and I looked upon the night
Beautiful in its cloudless firmament,
And in its canopy of myriad stars,
With such a sense of sorrow, as when one
Deeply enamored gazes on a form
Shaped to celestial beauty, with the keen
And bitter thought that he can only gaze,
And love and worship, but can never be
Loved with an equal passion. It was dark,

O cou'd I sing as R AMSAY sung,
And far-fam'd F ERGUSSON ,
Or if my lyre it were but strung
Like R AB 's the Mauchline clown:
But as I can, I'll try to sing,
What happ's ilk year in Lunnon,
Whare laddies meet to dance a spring
Wi' lasses, to raise fun on
St A NDREW'S Day .

There was a time, when the o'erhanging sky
And the fair earth with its variety,
Mountain and valley, continent and sea,
Were not alone the unmoving things that lie
Slumbering beneath the sun's unclouded eye;
But every fountain had its spirit then,
That held communion oft with holy men,
And frequent from the heavenward mountain came
Bright creatures, hovering round on wings of flame,
And some mysterious sibyl darkly gave
Responses from the dim and hidden cave:
Voices were heard waking the silent air,
A solemn music echoed from the wood,

I.

Wide to the wind the canvas throw;
The moment calls, — away, away!
And let the full libation flow
To the bright sentinel of day;
Fill high the beaker to its brim,
And freely pour it in the sparkling sea,
That the blue-cinctured galley swim
Light as a bird who feels its liberty,
And, gladdening in the sun's reviving smile,
Floats o'er the water to its osier isle.

He longed to be a Back-Blocks Bard,
And fame he wished to win —
He wrote at night and studied hard
(He read The Bulletin );
He sent in " stuff " unceasingly,
But couldn't get it through;
And so, at last, he came to me
To see what I could do.

The poet's light was in his eye,
He aimed to be a man ;
He bought a bluey and a fly,
A brand new billy-can.
I showed him how to roll his swag

FOR THE CELEBRATION AT BUNKER HILL

When our patriot fathers met
 In the dark and trying hour,
While the hand of Britain yet
 Pressed us with its weight of power,
Still they dared to tell the foe
 They were never made for slaves,—
Still they bade the nations know
 They were free as ocean's waves.

Yonder is the glorious hill
 Where their blood was nobly shed,—
Never with a firmer will
 Hearts of freemen beat and bled:
Shall the son forget his sire?
 No,—the admiring world shall see
High a pillared tomb aspire,

Land of bards and heroes, hail!
Land of gods and godlike men,
Thine were hearts that could not quail, —
Earth was glorious then;
Thine were souls that dared be free,
Power, and Fame, and Liberty.

In thy best and brightest hour,
Thou wert like the sun in heaven;
Like the bow that spans the shower,
Thou to earth wert given:
Nations turned to thee and prayed
Thou wouldst fold them in thy shade.

Like the infant Hercules,

One last, best effort now!
They shall not call us slaves, —
These iron necks shall never bow
To barter for a hated life,
But we will tell, in mortal strife,
What wrath a freeman braves:
A few short years, and we have known
The pride and joy — to live alone.

Our ancient land was free;
We washed its stains in blood:
Again the hymn of Liberty
Rose from the high Athenian shrine,
And virgin hands did often twine,
In the dark olive wood,
Their garlands for the youthful brow
Who taught the heathen Turk to bow.

Now bind in myrtle wreaths the avenging sword,
Like him who, at the Panathenian games,
With the bold heart no tyrant quells nor tames,
The bosom of the proud usurper gored.
We have a sterner foe to wake our wrath,—
Centuries of darkness have not dimmed us quite,—
We have the heart to feel, the hand to smite.
Wo to the wretch who dares to cross our path!
Our souls are gathered to the effort,—free
We have been, and we will be, and our sires
Shall look from heaven, and see us light the fires
On thy eternal altars, Liberty!