Of love co-breathed the boundless source, Saints' bodies there the sun outvie, In all-sufficient bliss they joy, With God's own Son they reign coheirs, ALFRED TENNYSON, the present poet-laureate of England, was born in 1809, in his father's parsonage, at Somerby, Lincolnshire, and graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. In conjunction with his brother Charles (who called himself Charles Turner) he issued in 1827 a volume of anonymous poems by "two brothers." Since that time he has been a constant producer of most ornate and exact poems, that have given him a fame as extensive as the language. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows As are the frosty skies, As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So in my earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, He lifts me to the golden doors ; Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, One sabbath deep and wide- ALFRED TENNYSON. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. LADY CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE, called "The Flower of Strathearn," third daughter of Laurence Olyphant, was born in the County of Perth, Scotland, July 16, 1766. In 1806 she became the wife of Captain W. Murray Nairne, afterwards Lord Nairne. It is said that Lady Nairne was led to write from being offended at the coarseness of the words of the popular ballads. She was successful in wedding pure words to beautiful music. Lady Nairne died at Gask, the place of her birth, Oct. 27, 1845. I'M wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Johr, To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, John, To the land o' the leal! In the land o' the leal. Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, To the land o' the leal. For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them himsel' to his ain countree. He's faithfu' that hath promised, he 'll surely come again, He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be, To gang at ony moment to my ain countree. So I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait, For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the shining gate; God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo |