But thou of humbler heart, thou student wiser for simplicity, While Nature warmeth thee betimes, heed the loving counsel

of Religion.

True, this change is good, and penitence most precious;

But trust not thou thy change; nor rest upon repentance;

For we all are corrupted at the core, smooth as our surface

seemeth;

What health can bloom in a beautiful skin, when rottenness hath fed upon the bones ?

And guilt is parcel of us all; not thou, sweet nursling of affection, Art spotless, though so passing fair, nor thou, wild patriarch of

virtue ;

Behold then the better tree of Life, free unto us all for grafting, Cut thee from the hollow root of self, to be budded on a richer vine, Be desperate, O man, as of evil so of good; tear that tunic from

thee;

The past can never be retriev'd, be the present what it may.
Vain is the penance and the scourge, vain the fast and vigil;
The fencer's cautious skill to-day, can this erase his scars?
It is man's to famish as a faquir, it is man's to die a devotee;
Light is the torture and the toil, balanced with the wages of

Eternity:

But, it is God's to yearn in love on the humblest, the poorest, and the worst;

For he has giv'n freely, as a King, asking only thanks for mercy. Look upon this noble-hearted Substitute; seeing thy woes, he pitied thee;

Bow'd beneath the mountain of thy sin and perish'd,—but for God-head.

There stood the Atlas in his power, and Prometheus in his love is there,

Emptying, on wretched man, the blessings earn'd from heav'n. Put them not away-hide them in thy breast, poor and penitent receiver;

Be gratitude thy counsellor to good, and wholesome fear unto obedience:

Remember the pruning knife is keen, cutting cankers even from the vine;

Remember, twelve were chosen, and one among them liveth in perdition.

Yea, for standing unatoned, the soul is a bison on the prairie,
Hunted by those trooping wolves, the many sinful yesterdays:
And it speedeth a terrified Deucalion, flinging back the pebble
in his flight,-

The pebble that must add one more to those pursuing ghosts.
O man! there is a storm behind, should drive in thy bark to haven:
The foe, the foe, is on thy track, patient, certain and avenging ;
Day by day, solemnly and silently followeth the fearful past,—
His step is lame but sure; for he catcheth the present in eternity:
And how to escape that foe, the present-past in future?
How to avert that fate, living consequence of causes unexistent?
Boldly we must overleap his birth, and date above his memories,
Grafted on the living Tree that was before a yesterday;
No refuge of a younger birth than one that saw creation,
Can hide the child of time from still condemning yesterday.
There is the Sanctuary-city, mocking at the wrath of thine

Avenger,

Close at hand, with its wicket on the latch; haste for thy life, poor hunted one!

The gladiator, Guilt, fighteth as of old, armed with net and dagger;

Snaring in the mesh of yesterdays, stabbing with the poniard of to-day;

Fly, thy sword is broken at the hilt; fly, thy shield is shiver'd ; Leap the barriers and baffle him; the arena of the past is his. The bounds of guilt are the cycles of time; thou must be safe

within Eternity;

The arms of God alone shall rescue thee from yesterday.

A POET'S PARTING THOUGHT.*-Motherwell.

WHEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,

Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more?

Will there be any heart still memory keeping
Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
Sad music make;

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Like full hearts break,-

Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing,
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
With purest ray,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay,—

Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound,

And wintry storms have, with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crown'd,—

Will there be then one, vers'd in misery's story,
Pacing it round ?—

It may be so, but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,—

* These lines of Motherwell,-so touching in their simple pathos, and so unselfish in the calm resignation of their close, -were given to a friend by the author, a day or two before his decease.

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,
From hearts that bleed,

The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;

And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start:

It were in vain,-for time hath long been knelling;— Sad one, depart!

DIALOGUE AND DRAMATIC PIECES.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.-CAMPBELL.

WIZARD-LOCHIEL.*

Wiz.-Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day
When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight.
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain!
But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!

Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead.

* In this dialogue, the tone of the Wizard, or Seer-who is supposed to be gifted with second-sight-must be deep, and solemn; increasing in pitch and force as the images of horror crowd upon his vision, and varied occasionally by the soft tones of grief. The expression of the chieftain Lochiel must be that of bold confidence, daring, and contempt of the Wizard's prediction. His pitch will therefore be higher, and his tone louder.