l alone;--
Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!
But alas! his strength is gone!
He stoops, he totters on with pain,
The hill he 'll never climb again.

Age is being's winter season,
Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;
Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,
Man feels _then_ himself grown old;
His senses one by one have fled,
His very soul seems almost dead.

THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH.

The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?

'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"
To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.

MRS DUGALD STEWART.

Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor
Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish
Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She
was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of
William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became
the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having
survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister
of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's "Schloss
Hainfeld"), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of
Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.

The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete
with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

TUNE--_"Ianthe the Lovely."_

The tears I shed must ever fall:
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I w