POETRY.

Between the heather and the sea, Beside a lozenge-windowed kirk, That in this hour of morning mirk Looks greyly towards the storm-grey Manse, Wheieround tall rhododendrons dance. There spreads a belt of greenest grass, Where white-plumed dandelions pass Their time in tossing on the air Winged seed on seed, light care on care. Between the heather and the sea Is where I'd be.

There summer's scourge doth not prevail, Nor shrieking winter's tempest-flail ; And spring and autumn shimmer and pass Like shadowy breath upon a glass. Shine high the sun, brood low the dark, Sing soft the wind, sing loud the lark, The sowers sow, the reapers reap— Naught touches them that there do sleep Between the heather and the sea, Where I would be.

Nor dreams are theirs, nor hopes, nor fears ; Nor laughter's light, nor noise of tears ; Nor vain-breath struggle to be first, Nor any soul- or body-thirst; Nor any hunger, fanged and fierce,

The spirit to slay, the flesh to pierce;

Nor any memory sad or sweet :

But sleep is theirs, full, round, complete—

Between the heather and the sea, Where I would be.

Love comes not there; she owns no thrall Within those bounds; you lichened wall (0 wisest, grimmest, best of friends!) The frontier of her kingdom ends, As who might say, "Till death—not after 1" Nor ever there rings children's laughter, That cruellest of darling chains Bind weary men to living's pains.

Between the heather and the sea Is where I'd be.

Below the dappled nor'land sky My father and my mother lie, Safe in the garth of Tired Man's Lease ; And, crowned with plenitude of peace, As they these thirty years have lain, From Life's delight and Life's disdain Secure, they share an unjarred slumber, No jealous dreams of waking cumber— Between the heather and the sea, Where I would be. Thither, 0 thither let me wend This goodly day of harvest's end, Forsaking all the doing and din, To lie and sleep beside my kin And first—I know—my dead shall wake And open wide their arms and take Close, not the grown man, but the child They knew, by Life yet undefiled, Between the heather and the sea, Where I would be.

And we shall talk a little while. My father with a grave wise smile, My mother with a wistful tear, Holding my hands, shall listen and hear My tale—the telling takes not long : Love, loss ; fight, flight ; an hour of song! Then she: " 0 baby, do not weep!" And he : "It's over, boy. To sleep ! " Between the heather and the sea—

It's there I'd be.

. . . . To sleep! To sleep t Hark ! there's the

knell Relentless of the rousing bell !

Up for another day of doing, Of fortune-wooing, fame-pursuing!

Up with what hope is left, and out, Out for assault, rebuff, and rout Won I the world, the world I'd pay To sleep, six hundred miles away, Between the heather and the sea, Where I would be.

W. A. MACKENZIE.