Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame, the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey: Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! While conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer spirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light "amid the blossoms of Kelso," and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the banks of the Tweed. Her "Memoir," by her gifted mother, is one of the most beautiful and touching biographies in the English language. Possessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life was the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of eternity. Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime, So beautiful and dear, Whose music gushed as genius taught, With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught, I list--thy strain to hear. Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born, When spring her glories shed, Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen, And Tiviot feeds her valleys green, I cannot think thee dead. Fair child--whose rich unfoldings gave A promise rare and true, The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer, And soothe of widowed woe the tear,-- Why hid'st thou from our view? Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hope Bowed the pure brow in prayer, Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace, Did make the manse a holy place, We search--thou art not there. Fond mother, they who taught thy joys To sparkle up so high; Thy first born, and her brother dear Catch charms from every fleeting year:-- Where is thy glistening eye? Meek Christian, it is well with thee, That where thy heart so long Was garnered up, thy home should be;-- Thy path with Him who made thee free;-- Thy lay--an angel's song. _Lydia H. Sigourney._ Some of Mary Lundie Duncan's poems are characterized not merely by purity and elevation of sentiment, but by sweetness and melody of versification. The following written at "Callander," though not without defects, indicates the possession of true poetical genius. How pure the light on yonder hills, How soft the shadows lie; How blythe each morning sound that fills The air with melody! Those hills, that rest in solemn calm Above the strife of men, Are bathed in breezy gales of balm From knoll and heathy glen. In converse with the silent sky, They mock the flight of years; While man and all his labors die Low in this vale of tears. Meet emblem of eternal rest, They point their summits grey To the fair regions of the blest, Where tends our pilgrim way.