I would be laid among the wildest flowers,

I would be laid where happy hearts can come :-The worthless clay I heed not; but in hours

Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some Will dwell upon my name; and I will be A happy spirit there, affection's look to see.

Death is upon me, yet I fear not now;-
Open my chamber-window-let me look
Upon the silent vales the sunny glow

That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook :I know them-love them-mourn not them to leave, Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve!

MILTON. A SO V VEJ.

BLIND, glorious, aged martyr, saint, and sage!
The poet's mission God reveal'd to thee,

To lift men's souls to Him-to make them free ;

With tyranny and grossness war to wage

A worshipper of truth and love to be—

To reckon all things nought but these alone ;

To nought but mind and truth to bow the kneeTo make the soul a love-exalted throne !

Man of the noble spirit !-Milton, thou

All this didst do! A living type thou wert

Of what the soul of

man to be may grow—

The pure perfection of the love-fraught heart!

Milton! from God's right hand, look down and see

For these, how men adore and honor thee!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

1798-1851.

DR. MOIR was a native of Musselburgh, a town near Edinburgh. His poems over the signature of Delta in Blackwood's Magazine, to which he was a frequent contributor from its commencement, were eagerly read and extensively copied into the journals of both England and America. He was also the author of the "Autobiography of Mansie Waugh,” a book of much genuine humor. It was originally published in a series of papers in the columns of Blackwood.

His "Casa Wappy" is one of the most touching and tender effusions in the English language.

He died in his native town, lamented by a large circle of friends and admirers.

The late Lord Jeffrey, in writing to Moir, said of his "Domestic Verses":-"I cannot resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and, I hope, bettering emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what you have written is more genuine pathos than anything almost I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower recommendations indifferent."

RECEDED hills afar of softened blue,

Tall bowering trees, through which the sunbeams shoot
Down to the waveless lake, birds ever mute,

And wild flowers all around of every hue-
Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, knee-deep stand,
Safe from the fierce sun, the overshadowed kine,
And, to the left, where cultivated fields expand,
'Mid tufts of scented thorn the sheep recline,
Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please;
O how inviting to the traveller's eye