MONTHLY KKV1EW OF LITERATURE. 77 



pervades them. They want power, but they are generally possessed of much 

 sweetness. The language is chaste, and the versification smooth. The au- 

 thor is evidently a man of cultivated mind. He is intimately conversant with 

 the graces of literature. We give two specimens. The first is headed 



"STANZAS FOR MUSIC." 



"When the Summer's star shines brightly 



In its pure and airy home, 

 And the fairies, skipping lightly, 



O'er the moon- lit meadows roam, 

 When the silver currents glisten 



Where the water-lilies float, 

 And the sleepless ear may listen 



To the Nightingale's sweet note, 

 We'll wander o'er the waters, 

 Thou chief of beauty's daughters, 

 And hear across them stealing 

 The fairy-bell's soft pealing. 

 When o'er the honey clover 

 The bee no longer roves, 

 When the rustic's toil is over, 

 And when silence rules the groves, 

 When the care, and sin, and sorrow, 

 Of the weary world seems o'er, 

 And lie sleeping till the morrow, 

 Love lands on night's dark shore, 

 And the feelings we must smother 

 By day upon each other 

 We'll lavish them, employing 

 Each moment in enjoying." 



Our other extract is a Ballad called 



" THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER." 



" ARRAYED in costliest attire, 



That flashed with gems, like lambent fire, 



And bearing ornaments and gold 



For dower, with many a vassal bold, 



The low-land lord came o'er the water, 



To woo and win the Chieftain's daughter. 



He was a youth of manly mien, 

 Of manners princely and serene, 

 And he had learned the language soft 

 That gains fair lady's heart full oft ; 

 But still in vain he crossed the water 

 He could not win the Chieftain's daughter. 



Hath not the heather gallants good 

 As e'er in court or palace stood ? 

 The maiden thought, Oh ! there's a man, 

 The bravest of our own brave clan, 

 Far dearer to the Chieftain's daughter 

 Than earl or prince from o'er the water. 



What, though young Malcolm Grant be poor, 



In fame he's rich, in faith he's sure ! 



Barren may be his hill-domains, 



But are they not my native plains ? 



And, O, for wealth the Chieftain's daughter 



Will never leave her loch's blue water. 



