Whose all of fortune's gifts have been her graces,
Lord only of my loving looking-glass,-
Nor woman's wit nor wealth will I pursue;
For when the maid is coy-your hint to woo-
Turn from her, and she'll, sure, turn after you :
My sweet-mouthed moralist! art answer'd now?
Nay, never frown-farewell, my pretty coz ! Exit.
Linda. Oh, why will woman condescend to love!
Enter TIMANTHE.

Hah! how is this?—Timanthe here!—my friend!
Timanthe. Aye, Linda, I am here!—
Shall I confess my shame ?

Unwittingly, yet scarce against my will,
I've overheard it all-heard all he said-
And, think ye not 'twas bitter sweet to hear?
But, I will be revenged-I'll doat upon him,―
Forsake, renounce myself-be mad with love;
Reason shall, henceforth, have no part in me,
Take, take your prey-passion, cry havock here!
And, as the captive, for his liberty,
Demolishes his prison-house, by fire,

My eager soul, that cannot kill itself,
Shall scorch and fret its fleshy cage, with fever,

Till it fall scathed to earth, and set me free!

Linda. Be more advised-I pray-soft, sweet Timanthe!

And time may win ye to forget Montalto.

Timanthe. Time !—and forget!—a calendar for woe!

Bid my heart suffer by an almanack!

Thou dost deride me. Oh, unkind Montalto!

What though these eyes shall never more behold him! My spirit, still, shall cleave unto his being,

Shall drink his sorrow-taste his every joy ;

He shall not dream a dream but I'll perceive it !-
I'll hover round his path, and o'er his bed;
As he but smiles or frowns, be grave or gay;

My soul shall be the sensitive acacia,

That trembles to the passing of a shadow !—
Filling the avenue of every sense,

All I shall see, or hear, or touch, or taste,
Shall scem Montalto!

I'll hate his hate, and whom he deigns to love,
Hear it, all heaven and earth!-I'll love her too!
Ah, Linda, Linda! what's the despair that kills?
The torment of the damned most surely lies
In viewing heaven, afar, with hopeless eyes!

Rushes out.

SONG.

"HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE."

BY JOHN MOULTRIE, ESQ.

HERE'S to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee,

For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;

For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace, For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;

For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be,

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though my glow of youth is o'er,

And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream

no more;

Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled my soul at last,

And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friend

ship past;

Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,—

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though I know that not for me

Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;

Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by,

Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful

eye;

Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie !-here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!-when I meet thee in the throng

Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely

along,

I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy

form,

As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm;

And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee,

And for once, my Scottish lassie! dance a giddy dance with thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!-I shall think of thee at even,

When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through Heaven;

I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every wind

that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered autumn leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the

sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie! I shall often think of

thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-in my sad and lonely hours,

The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers;

Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye,

Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the

sky,

Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossom on

the tree,

Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !-though my muse must soon be dumb,

(For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, are come,)

Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learr. to soar on high,

And to look on this world's follies with a calm and

sober eye,