Is it a spirit voice — an angel's song —
That pours its liquid melody among
The mossy stones that break the rippling sheen,
Lone Calder! gliding thy fair banks between?

No! 'tis the voice — the music of the stream,
That chimes harmonious with the poet's dream:
A dream of beauty, radiant and divine,
A halo floating round the muses' shrine.

Oft in sweet summer prime Isinging strayed
Down yon deep dell and through the woodland glade,
To woo fair Nature in soft Doric rhymes,
And hear the tinkling of thy silver chimes.

And, ah, what glorious wealth of wilding flowers!
What wealth of fragrant blossoms on thy bowers!
What odorous breathings of the summer breeze!
What chorus of sweet singers in the trees!

O Nature! fairer, dearer to my heart
Than pictured scenes of highest, rarest art!
What sweeter chord can charm the spirit dream
Than the weird music of the singing stream?

Fond Memory treasures in her deepest cell
The woodland glade, the deep romantic dell,
Where oft the summer day too brief would seem,
When wandering, musing, by lone Calder's stream.

" A change came o'er the spirit of my dream, "
I heard no more the music of the stream:
The flowers and blooms were withered, trampled, soiled,
Nature's fair face of every charm despoiled.

For, lo! obscuring the fair light of day,
The genii of the mines, in grim array,
With baleful wings the landscape shadowed o'er,
And beauty, bloom, and song exist no more.

BANKS OF CALDER AND COUSIN DORA .

Straying , musing, singing, dreaming,
'Neath the leafy banners streaming,
Fleck'd with golden sunbeams gleaming
Through the woodland's dun;
On lone Calder's banks reclining,
Where the brier and hazel, twining,
Screen me from the fervid shining
Of the noontide sun.

Sweet thy soft melodious gushing,
Sylvan stream! and sweet the hushing
Of the breeze, with soft breath pushing
Wide the opening flowers;
Pendant honeysuckles flinging
Fragrance round; the woodbine clinging
Round the elm; bird-music ringing
In thy birchen bowers.

Through thy waters — rippling, dancing,
Where the minnow shoals are glancing —
Slow I wade, and, still advancing,
Reach the further shore;
Lightly bounding o'er the shingles,
Through my limbs the warm blood tingles;
With the birds my wild song mingles,
Trilling o'er and o'er.

Up the dell, all panting, glowing,
Where the foxgloves tall are growing,
Where the wild brier-roses, blowing,
Scent the summer air;
Where the weeping willow stoopeth,
Where the silver runnel scoopeth
Out her bed; where hyacinth droopeth,
Slender, meek, and fair.

Where the silver birch is waving,
Where the crystal well-spring laving,
Busy bees their treasures saving,
Stands a lonely cot,
Bower'd in jessamine and roses;
Flora there her wealth discloses,
Freely there her charms exposes,
On that lovely spot

From the flower-wreathed porch comes winging,
Like a bird, dear Dora, singing,
To my side so fondly clinging —
Ah, how soon to part!
Fair, pale rose! too early blowing!
Child of beauty, bright, and glowing!
Sweetest thoughts and fancies flowing
Ever from her heart.

Summers six, with shade and shining,
Passed, when, without plaint or pining,
On her couch of death reclining,
Cousin Dora lay.
Short we had her in possession,
Yet she has fulfilled her mission;
Called to Heaven, we bow submission —
She has passed away!