"When the voice of warm devotion
To the throne of God arose-
Mighty as the sound of ocean,
Čalm as nature in repose;-
Sweeter, than when Araby

Perfume breathes from flow'r and tree,
Rising 'bove the shining sphere,
To Jehovah's list'ning ear."

You have heard of Mungo Park, we daresay, Christian? What! Your mother says he was a cousin of hers-and that she was born in the forest-the forest of Ettrickand that she knew the Shepherd! These verses here we remember having read two years ago—and we shall now refresh our memory by a perusal aloud. Stand between our knees, child, and hold the paper well up.

ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN

DESERT.

"The sun had reached his mid-day height,
And poured down floods of burning light
On Afric's barren land;

No cloudy veil obscured the sky,
And the hot breeze that struggled by
Was filled with glowing sand.

"No mighty rock upreared its head
To bless the wanderer with its shade
In all the weary plain;

No palm-trees with refreshing green
To glad the dazzled eye were seen,
But one wide sandy main.

"Dauntless and daring was the mind
That left all home-born joys behind
These deserts to explore-

To trace the mighty Niger's course,
And find it bubbling from its source
In wilds untrod before.

"And ah! shall we less daring show,
Who nobler ends and motives know

Than ever heroes dream-
Who seek to lead the savage mind
The precious fountain-head to find
Whence flows salvation's stream?

"Let peril, nakedness and sword,
Hot barren lands, and despot's word
Our burning zeal oppose―
Yet, Martyn-like, we'll lift the voice,
Bidding the wilderness rejoice
And blossom as the rose.

"Sad, faint and weary on the sand
Our traveller sat him down; his hand
Covered his burning head,
Above, beneath, behind, around-
No resting for the eye he found;
All nature seemed as dead.

"One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,
Fixed his delighted gaze-
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And while he raised the tendril wild
His lips o'erflowed with praise.

"Oh, shall not He who keeps thee green, Here in the waste, unknown, unseenThy fellow exile save?

He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower, can surely lead
Me from a scorching grave!'

"The heaven-sent plant new hope inspiredNew courage all his bosom fired,

And bore him safe along;
Till with the evening's cooling shade
He slept within the verdant glade,
Lulled by the negro's song.

"Thus, we in this world's wilderness,
Where sin and sorrow-guilt-distress
Seem undisturbed to reign-
May faint because we feel alone,
With none to strike our favourite tone,
And join our homeward strain.

"Yet, often in the bleakest wild

Of this dark world, some heaven-born child,
Expectant of the skies,

Amid the low and vicious crowd,
Or in the dwellings of the proud,
Meets our admiring eyes.

"From gazing on the tender flower,
We lift our eye to him whose power
Hath all its beauty given;
Who, in this atmosphere of death,
Hath given it life, and form, and breath,
And brilliant hues of heaven.

"Our drooping faith, revived by sight,
Anew her pinion plumes for flight,
New hope distends the breast,
With joy we mount on eagle wing,
With bolder tone our anthem sing,
And seek the pilgrim's rest."

R. M'Ch, Larbert. The clergyman? The verses are beautiful-we wrote some ourselves many years ago on the same incident-but not nearly so good as these— and they have utterly faded from our memory-all but some broken images-two or three lines-and here and there a few floating words.

Three minutes from seven by your house-clock—she gives a clear warning-and three minutes from seven by our watch-rather curious their coincidence to such a nicety and when she has struck—we must take up our staff and go. Thank thee, bonnie Christian, we had forgot our wallet. There, in with the bannocks and the ham and the eggs-that chicken is really too bad, friends -you must take us for a sad glutton.

"Zicketty, dicketty, dock,

The mouse ran up the clock;
The clock struck one,
Down the mouse ran,
Zicketty, dicketty, dock."

Come closer, dear Christian, and let us
ear. What a pretty face of wonder!

put this to your 'Tis a repeater.

Good people-you have work to do in the hay-fieldlet us part--God bless you-good by-farewell.

Half-an-hour since we parted-and we cannot help being a little sad-and fear we were not so kind to the old people-so considerate-as we ought to have beenand, perhaps, though pleased with us just now, they may say to one another before evening that we were too merry for our years. Nonsense. We were all merry together and what's the use of wearing a long face, at all times, like a Methodist minister? A Methodist minister ! Why, John Wesley was facete, and Whitfield humorous-yet were their hearts fountains of tears—and ours is not a rock-if it be, 'tis the Rock of Horeb.

It has long been well known to the whole world that we are a sad egotist-yet our egotism, so far from being a detraction from our attraction, seems to be the very soul of it, making it impossible in nature for any reasonable being to come within its sphere, without being drawn by sweet compulsion to the old wizard's heart. He is so humane! Only look at him for a few minutes, and liking becomes love-love becomes veneration. And all this even before he has opened his lips-by the mere power of his ogles and his temples. In his large mild blue eyes is written not only his nature, but miraculously, in German text, his very name, Christopher North. Mrs. Gentle was the first to discover it; though we remember having been asked more than once in our youth by an alarmed virgin on whom we happened at the time to be looking tender, "if we were aware that there was something preternatural in our eyes?" Christopher is conspicuous in our right eye-North in our left-and when we wish to be incog., we either draw their fringed curtains, or nunlike, keep the tell-tale orbs fixed on the ground. Candour whispers us to confess, that some years ago a child was exhibited at sixpence with WILLIAM WOOD legibly in its optics-having been affiliated, by ocular evidence, on a gentleman of that name, who, with his dying breath, disowned the soft impeachment. But in that case nature had written a vile scrawl-in ours her hand is firm, and goes off with a flourish.

Our egotism accompanies us into solitude-nay, is

even more life-pervading there than in the hum of men. There the stocks and stones are more impressible than those we sometimes stumble on in human society, and moulded at our will, take what shape we choose to give them; the trees follow our footsteps, though our lips be mute, and we have left at home our fiddle-more potent we in our reality than the fabled Orpheus. Be hushed, ye streams, and listen unto Christopher ! Be chained, ye clouds, and attentive unto North! And at our bidding silent the cataract on the cliff-the thunder on the sky. The sea beholds us on the shore-and his one huge frown transformed into a multitudinous smile, he turns flowing affections towards us along the golden sands,. and in a fluctuating hindrance of lovely foam-wreaths envelopes our feet!

Proud was that pool, even now, to reflect OUR IMAGE. Do you recollect that picture in the Excursion-so much admired by Wordsworth-of the Ram and the Shadow of the Ram?

"Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched
The hasty rivulet, where it lay becalmed
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw
A twofold image; on a grassy bank
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood
Another and the same! Most beautiful
On the green turf, with his imperial front
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb,
The breathing creature stood; as beautiful
Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart;
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky,
And each seem'd centre of his own fair world.
Antipodes unconscious of each other,
Yet, in partition, with their several spheres,
Blended in perfect stillness to our sight.
Ah! what a pity were it to disperse
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle,

And yet a breath can do it."

Oh! that the solitary, and the pedlar, and the poet, and the priest and his lady, were here to see a sight more glorious far than that illustrious and visionary Two Christopher Norths-as Highland chieftains

ram.