MARY BRUNTON,

Born 1778, died 1818.

The following is one of three poetical compositions in the posthumous volume of the excellent authoress of SelfControl and Discipline. Hermaiden name was Balfour.

Stanzas for Music.

WHEN thou at eventide art roaming

Along the elm-o'ershaded walk,

Where, past, the eddying stream is foaming

Beneath its tiny cataract, –

Where I with thee was wont to talk,

Think thou upon the days gone by,

And heave a sigh!

When sails the moon above the mountains,

And cloudless skies are purely blue,

And sparkle in the light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,-

Then be thou melancholy too,

When musing on the hours I prov'd
With thee, belov'd!

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, And lingering shadows disappear,

And soft the woodland songs are swelling

A choral anthem on thine ear,-
Think-for that hour to thought is dear!
And then her flight remembrance wings
To by-past things.

To me, thro' every season, dearest,
In every scene-by day, by night,
Thou present to my mind appearest
A quenchless star-for ever bright!
My solitary, sole delight!
Alone-in grove-by shore-
I think of thee!

at sea,

Wife of the celebrated John Hunter, and sister of the present Sir Everard Home, published a volume of Poems, some of which are written with much elegance and feeling. Several of her songs had previously been set to music; one or two are embalmed in the eternal melodies of Haydn. She died in her 79th year.

SONG.

FAR, far from me my love is fled,
In a light skiff he tempts the sea,
The young Desires his sails have spread,
And Hope his pilot deigns to be.

The promis'd land of varied joys,
Which so delights his fickle mind,
In waking dreams his days employs,
While I, poor I, sing to the wind.

But

young Desires grow old and die,
And Hope no more the helm may steer;

Beneath a dark and stormy sky
Shall fall the late repentant tear.

While I, within my peaceful grot,
May hear the distant tempest roar,
Contented with my humble lot,
In safety on the friendly shore.

A Vow to Fortune.

Ir e'er the moment should arrive,
Which hope herself despairs to see,

Fortune, thy suppliant shall strive
To raise a votive pile to thee.

Bona Fortuna shall be plac'd

In golden letters round the dome,

The weary pilgrim there shall rest, And wait for happier days to come.

A curious lamp of bold design,

With emblematic sculpture crown'd, Shall burn before thy sacred shrine,

And cast its cheering rays around.

It shall be form'd of silent tears,

Slow dropping in the cave of care, Thro' the cold gloom of lingering years Congeal'd to crystal by despair.

It shall be wrought with tales of woe, Where Fortune turn'd the adverse tide, And taught the stream of chance to flow In channels hope herself denied.

There expectation's light shall burn,
And watchful faith the flame preserve;
If doubts and fears perchance return,
Hope shall have patience in reserve.

Bright lambent flame! till death shall endl
This mortal coil, and sorrow cease,

Thy beams shall consolation lend,
And light us on the way to peace.

O goddess Fortune! from thine eyes
The mystic fillet straight unbind,
See what thy random power denies,

And own thyself unjust and blind.