MALCOLM.

Boy! this world has ever been

A bright, glad world to me;

Through each dark and checkered scene

God's sun shone lovingly.

But Content I've never known;

Hoping, trusting that the years,

With their April smiles and tears,

Would yet bring me one like thee

That I could call my own.

With thy soft and heavenly eyes

In deep and pensive calm,

I seem looking at the skies,

And wonder where I am!

Something more than princely blood

Courses in thy tranquil face:

When she lent thee such a grace,

Nature lit life's earnest flame

In her most queenly mood.

Such a sweet intelligence

Is stamped on every line,

Banqueting our craving sense

With minist'rings divine.

If thy Boyhood be so great,

What will be the coming Man,

Could we overleap the span?

Are there treasures in the mine,

To pay us, if we wait?

Doth the voice of Music live

In that majestic brain,

Waiting for the Hand to give

Expression to the strain?

Are there wells of Truth — pure, deep,

Where the patient diver, Thought,

Finds the pearl that has been sought

Many a weary age in vain,

Entrusted to thy keep.

Doth the fire of Genius burn

Within that ample brow?

Or some patient spirit yearn

For things that are not now?

Hidden in the over-soul

Of the Future, to be born

When the world has ceased its scorn,

When the sceptic's heart will bow

To the divine control.

Patiently we'll watch and hope,

And wait, alternately;

Trusting that, when time shall ope

The casket's mystery,

We will be made rich indeed

With the wonders it contains;

Rich beyond all previous gains;

Richer for thy thought and thee,

Beyond our greatest meed.