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So, though my tears were blinding me,
I ran back, fast as fast could be,

To come again to you;
And here—close by—this Squire I met,
Who asked (so mild) what made me fret;

And when I told him true,

'I will go with you, child,' he said; •God sends me to this dying bed.'

Mother, he's here, hard by.”—While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quiveriny flank and trembling knee,

Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look
Something that, like a sermon book,

Preached—“All is vanity.”

But when the dying woman's face
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,

He stepped to where she lay;
And kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying, “I am a minister-

My sister, let us pray.”

And well, withouten book or stole,
(God's words were printed on his soul)

Into the dying ear
Ile breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain,
The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed--regenerate;

Of God's most bless'd decree,
That not a single soul should die
Which turns repentant with the cry,

“Be merciful to me.”

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil,
Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and love-
Sure, in God's own good time, to be
Exchanged for an eternity

Of happiness above.
Then as the spirit ebbed away-
He raised his hands and eyes, to pray

That peaceful it might pass ;
And then—the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard as they knelt every one

Close round on the green grass.
Such was the sight their wond'ring eyes
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,

Who reined their coursers back,
Just as they found the long astray,
Who, in the heat of chase that day,

Had wandered from their track.
Back each man reined his pawing steed,
And lighted down, as if agreed,

In silence at his side;
And there, uncovered all, they stool.
It was a wholesome sight and good

That day for mortal pride :

For of the noblest of the land ,
Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;

And central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed King!

REV. G. CRABBE. THE ANGELS' SONG.

It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold : “ Peace to the earth, goodwill to men

From heaven's all-gracious King;" — The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven sky they come

With peaceful wings unfurled ; And still their heavenly music floats

O’er all the weary world : Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o'er its Babel sounds

The blessed angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife

The world has suffered longBeneath the angel-strain have rolled

Two thousand years of wrong; And men, at war with men, hear not

The love-song which they bring : Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife,

And hear the angels sing !

And ye, beneath life's crushing load

Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing :
Oh! rest beside the weary road,

And hear the angels sing!

For, lo! the days are hastening on,

By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years

Comnes round the age of gold ;
When Peace shall over all the earth

Its ancient splendours fling,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing!

E. H. SEARS.

STAFFA.

MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,

On a breeze from the northward free;
So shoots through the morning sky the lark,

Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay,
And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round. .
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose

The cormorant had found ;
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weliered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise !
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or ber arches bend ;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the nigh vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,
“Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high and hard—but witness mine."

Sir WALTER SOOTT.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry.”-

“Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle,

This dark and stormy water ?”— “O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle ;

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,

When they have slain her lover ?-

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go, my chief -- I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”—

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

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