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It was morning, and summer's young sun, from the east,
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast,
On Wardlaw, and Cairn-Table, the clear shining dew,
Glistened sheen 'mang the heath-bells and mountain flowers
blue.

And far up in heaven in the white sunny cloud,
The sang of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthened and deep,
Was the whistling of plovers and the bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness,
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of green July's bright morning.

But ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from this scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

"Twas the few faithful ones who, with Cameron, were lying

Concealed 'mang the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying;

For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty cover

ing.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brows was un

breathed;

With eyes raised to Heaven, in meek resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
As the hosts of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,

Yet the souls of the righteous stood calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending,

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming. The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat had

ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,

The drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,

And its burning wheels turned upon axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,

All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,

And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are riding.
Glide swiftly, bright spirits, the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

LIVES

BY AN UNFORTUNATE FEMALE BEWAILING HER MOURNFUL CONDITION.

ANON.

LITTLE did my mother ken

The day she cradled me,

The lands that I should travel in!

Or what death I should dee!

Oh that my father ne'er had on me smiled!
Oh that my mother ne'er had to me sung!
Oh that my cradle never had been rocked!
But that I had died when I was young!

Oh that the grave, it were my bed!

The blankets were my winding sheet!
The clods and the worms my bed-fellows'a!
And oh! sae sound as I should sleep!

THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE.'

(BORN JULY 9, 1586-DIED ABOUT JANUARY, 1588.)

MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH.

"This page, if thou be a pater (parent-father) that reads it, thou wilt apardone me; if nocht, suspend thy censure till thou be a father, as said the grave Lacedæmonian Agesilaus."-AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JAMES MELVILLE.

ONE time-my soul was pierced as with a sword—
Contending still with men untaught and wild-
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd,
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child!

A summer gift-my precious flower was given—
A very sunny fragrance was its life;

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,

When home I turned-a weary man of strife!

I This exquisite gem is from a volume of rare poetical excellence, in which full justice is done to our Covenanting sires, entitled "Lays of the Kirk and Covenant," by Mrs. Menteath. It is long since we enjoyed such a treat as this little volume has given us. No nation on the face of the globe has a history so full of interest to the Christian as that of Scotland. Her soil has been consecrated by conflicts, more noble than those immortalized in Homer's song-battles for Christ's crown and covenant, that have shaped the destinies of man to an extent that nothing but eternity can fully disclose. Amid such scenes the Christian poet finds appropriate materials for song. Mrs. Menteath has the true spirit of the ballad-wild, plaintive, and soulmoving. That parent must be made of stern stuff, indeed, who can read "The Child of James Melville" with undimmed eyes.

With unformed laughter-musically sweet

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss; With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greetOh! in the desert, what a spring was this?

A few short months it blossomed near my heart-
A few short months-else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home solace nerved me for my part,
And of the babe I was exceeding glad!

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying-
(The prophet's gourd-it withered in a night!
And He who gave me all—my heart's pulse trying—
Took gently home the child of my delight!

Not rudely culled-not suddenly it perished-
But gradually faded from our love away!
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld-and day by day!

My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own-
So beautiful He made my babe's declining-
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done!

And daily to my board at noon and even,

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring,

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