What hand but One could guard thy tender leaves
From the fierce fury of the summer sun,
When noonday hovers o’er my prison dun?
’Tis He that for my hapless fortune grieves!
Blest flower! that drew me to the arms of God,
With grateful tears I bathe thy dewy sod.
Robert W. Cryan.
The Conductor of Chambers’s Journal begs to direct the attention of Contributors to the following notice:
1st. All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High Street, Edinburgh.’