In every clime the magnet of his soul, O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams! The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife: Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams, by daylight, are! Night is the time for toil! To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep! To wet with unseen tears Hopes, that were angels at their birth, Night is the time to watch! O'er ocean's dark expanse, The full moon's earliest glance; That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved, and left behind! Night is the time for care!-- Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent,Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost! Night is the time to think! When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole, Discerns, beyond the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light! Night is the time to pray!- So will his follower do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God! Night is the time for death!- Calmly to yield the weary breath,— TO A DAISY. There is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charm, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arm. The purple heath and golden broom The violet in the vale. But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 'Tis Flora's page:-in every place, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, EVENING IN THE ALPS. Come, golden evening! in the west And let the triple rainbow rest O'er all the mountain tops. 'Tis done: The tempest ceases; bold and bright, The rainbow shoots from hill to hill; Down sinks the sun; on presses night;Mount Blanc is lovely still! There take thy stand, my spirit; spread The world of shadows at thy feet; And mark how calmly overhead The stars, like saints in glory, meet. While hid in solitude sublime, Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, And hear the passing foot of time Step through the silent gloom. All in a moment, crash on crash, From precipice to precipice, An avalanche's ruins dash Down to nethermost abyss. Invisible, the ear alone Pursues the uproar till it dies; Echo to echo, groan for groan, From deep to deep replies. Silence again the darkness seals, Darkness that may be felt;-but soon The silver-clouded east reveals The midnight spectre of the moon. In half eclipse she lifts her horn, Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme Brings the faint semblance of a morn, With her awakening beam. Ah! at her touch these Alpine heights I hold my breath in child suspense— They seem so exquisitely frail Lest they should vanish thence. I breathe again, I freely breathe; Safe on thy banks again I stray; The trance of poesy is o'er, And I am here at dawn of day, Gazing on mountains as before, Where all the strange mutations wrought banks of Lochgoil. verse, which was continued for several years, until both returned to Glasgow, Campbell to enter upon the career of a man of letters, Paul to prepare for the ministry. The latter, during his residence in the Highlands as well as on his return to Glasgow, continued to indulge In the classic county of Ayr there are no a The friends then, as well few cottages of which it can be said that within as previously during the college vacations, cartheir walls a poet was born. But on the fairy-ried on a humorous correspondence, chiefly in haunted banks of the Girvan, at a point in the parish of Dailly about a quarter of a mile from the old manor house of Bargeny, there is a cottage still standing distinguished from all other dwellings in that lovely land of song. Within that finely situated but humble home two poets first saw the light. There, in the | his poetic predilections, contributing verses of month of April, 1792, the venerable Hew Ainslie was born, and there, on April 10, 1773, little more than a hundred years ago, Hamilton Paul first opened his eyes. He received the elements of his education at the parish school, and completed it at the University of Glasgow, where he had for a friend and classmate Thomas Campbell, from whom he carried off a poetical prize. Several of Paul's first poetical efforts, composed while a student, attracted a great deal of attention, particularly one entitled "Paul's First and Second Epistles to the Dearly Beloved the Female Disciples or Female Students of Natural Philosophy in Anderson's Institution, Glasgow," an 8vo brochure | which appeared anonymously in the year 1800. Another of his productions of this period, a witty description of one of the college classes, enjoyed a wide popularity; as was the case with his ballad "The Maid of Inverary," written in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell. After leaving the university Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, Campbell obtaining a similar position in the family of General Napier, then residing on the romantic He main variable quality to several journals and maga- It is, however, rather as a humorist than as a poet that Paul is best remembered at Ayr and Broughton, where many amusing aneedotes are still told about him. Ainslie relates that when the Burns Club was founded at Alloway Paul furnished an annual ode; and when Chalmers, who was then engaged on his Caledonia, saw one of them in the Ayr newspaper, he wrote from London to a friend, saying that |