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A glory is circling the stern dark brow

Of Dunedin's fortress old,
And a gleam is waking more faintly now

Her Tolbooth's prison hold,
Where one hath risen—but not from sleep-

To gaze on that dawning sky-
6. True wife! what aileth thee now to weep,

Heaven brightens ere I die !"
There are mustering groups in the silent streets,

That are silent no longer now
Though briefly each other his fellow greets,

As with doubting on his brow!
It seemeth as if an anguish pressed

Alike on a nation's heart-
One mighty load upon every breast,

Which yet each must bear apart.
And still in its joy, o'er that joyless throng,

The brightening day dawn smiled,
While threading the crowd's dense maze along

Came an old man, and a child !
The man was woe-worn, past all relief,
The child's

young

brow was fair
So sunny-it seemed that no frost of grief

Could linger a moment there !
And onward he tripped at the old man's side,

With many a step for one,
And smiled in the face of his ancient guide,

As to bid his grief begone!
And still as the sunbeam before him danced

On the shade of the narrow street,
His little hands he would clap entranced,

And chase it with eager feet ! "Oh, whist ye my bairn,” said the old man then,

And is this a time for play?
Your hairs may be white ere the half ye'll ken,

Of the loss ye shall lose this day!”
“Ye said I should look in my Father's face,

And sit on my Father's knee-
Long, long he has lain in yon darksome place,

But I know he'll come home with me!" "Oh! whist ye my bairn," quoth the old man still,

For a better home he's bound,
But first he must suffer his Master's will,

And lie in the chill damp ground !"

the Nether Bow Port, as a spectacle for the finger of scorn to point at. But among those who repaired thither, and looked up at the long grey hairs rustling in the wind, and the features embrowning and drying in the sun, one little boy was often seen gazing fixedly upon that countenance with looks of love and terror,-and still returning day after day, and hour after hour, as if there was for him a language in that silent head which none else could hear. And who could that child be, but Guthrie's young son, the little Willie' of the martyr's last affectionate counsels and cares? His love of playing in the streets was over now; a new occupation had absorbed him; and as he returned from these pilgrimages, we may conceive with what feelings his mother heard him, when on her anxious inquiry as to where he had been, his usual reply was, ' I have been seeing my father's head! The dying admonitions of the departed parent, enforced by such a solemnizing spectacle, seem to have sunk deep into William's heart; for it was observed, that after his father's death, he spent much time in solitude, and was often employed in prayer. Resolving to walk in his father's steps, he directed his studies to the church, and became a scholar of excellent promise ; but he died in early youth, when he was entering upon trials to be li. censed as a preacher."

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The child looked wistfully up agaiñ --

His Master is God on high, He sends the sun, and He stays the rain

He'll make it both warm and dry !"
They have entered in by the dismal door,

They have mounted the weary stair,
And the mirth of the young child's heart's is o'er,

For no sunbeam greets him there !
With a shuddering dread, as the harsh key grates,

By the old man's side he clings-
But he hears a voice--and no longer waits,

To his Father's arms he springs !
My child ! my own child! am I clasping thee now ?

My God! all thy will be done !"
And he whom no terror of earth could bow,*

Rained tears upon his son !
“ Now rest thee, my Willie, upon my knee,

For thy father's hours are brief,
And store up my words with thy love for me,

Engraved on thy heart's first grief ! “They will tell thee, my bairn, that thy father died

A death both of sin and shame,
And the finger of scorn, and the foot of pride,

Will be busy with my name !
But heed them not, boy! for the cause of God

I render this day my breath;
And tread thou the path that thy father trod,
Though it lead to thy father's death!

Master's honour-my Master's crown
A martyr ’tis mine to be ;
And the orphans' God shall look kindly down,

My pleasant child, on thee!
I seal thee now with my parting kiss,

Till at His right hand we meet-
Death ! death! thy bitterest drop is this

All else in thy.cup is sweet!"
The child clings close to his father' heart,

But they bear him by force away-
A gentle force—but they needs must part

And that old man guides his way.
Once more they are treading the crowded street,

But no longer the sunlight smiled,
And looks of pity from some they meet,

For they know the martyr's child.
“ Yon darksome thing that shuts out the sky,

Oh tell me what may it be?
It scares my heart, though I know not why,

For it seems to gloom on me!”
With a quivering look, and a thrill of awe,

Was the old man's answer given-
'Tis a ladder, poor bairn, such as Jacob saw,

By which angels mount to heaven !”

“ For my

*

* Characterised by Cromwell as the short man who would not bow."

hair;

They have set his bead on the Nether Bow,

To scorch in the summer air!
And months go bye, and the winter's snow

Falls white on its thin grey
And still the same look that in death he wore,

Is sealed on the solemn brow-
A look as of one who hath travailed sore,

But whose pangs are ended now!
Through years of oppression, and blood, and shame,

The earth as a wine-press trod !
That silent witness abides the same,

In its mute appeal to God !
And many a saint hath waxed strong to bear,

While musing in that sad place;
And the heart of the tyrant hath falled for fear,

In the awe of that still, stern face !
There were prophet words on those lips in death,

Which Scotland remembers still;
And she looks for her God's awakening breath,

Through the long, long night of ill!
They may scatter their dust to the winds of heaven,

To the bounds of the utmost sea;
But her covenants—burned, reviled, and riven-

Shall yet her reviving be!
There sitteth a child by the Nether Bow,

In the light of the summer sky,
And he steals there yet in the winter's snow,

But he shuns the passers by.
A fair, pale child, with a faded cheek,

As a lily in darkness reared,
And an eye, in its sad abstraction meek,

As if nothing he hoped or feared !
In the early dawn, at the fall of eve,

But not in the noon of day-
And he doth not weep-and he doth not grieve,

But he never was seen to play!
A child in whom childhood's life is dead-

Its sweet light marred and dim-
And he gazes up at that awful head,

As though it held speech with him!
Oh ! a strange, sad sight, was the converse mute

Of the dead and the living there;
And thoughts in that young child's soul took root,

Which manhood might scarcely bear!
But ever he meekly went his way,

As the stars came o'er the place—
And his mother wept as she heard him say,

“I have seen my father's face !"
Years faded and died, and the child was gone,

But a pale youth came instead,
In the solemn eve, and at early dawn,

To gaze on the awful head !
And oft when the moonlight fell in showers,

He would linger the night long there;
And his spirit went up through those silent hours,

To his father's God in prayer !

The shadow had passed from his heart and brow,

And a deep calm filled his breast;
For the peace of God was his portion now,

And his weary soul had rest!
The martyr's God had looked kindly down,

On the martyr's orphan son ;
And the Spirit had sealed him for His own,

And his goal was almost won!

There was fond hope cherished, and earnest given

Of a course like his Father's high;
But the seed that had ripened so soon for heaven,

God gathered to the sky !
He comes no more to the customed place,

In vain would affection save!
He hath looked his last on his father's face,

And he lies in his mother's grave!

CONSTANCE LYNDSAY;

OR THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

CHAPTER V.

The month of January had now scene, for which she had exchanged the passed, and February was ushered in confinement of a chamber of sickness. by mild and genial weather.

They were approaching the terminaDr Sefton was anxious that as early tion of their journey, when she exas possible in the season, Lucy should claimed, “Hush, surely I hear the try the benefit of change of air, and murmur of waters." It was the Engabout the middle of February it was lish Channel, bounded only by the disarranged that the whole party, accompa- tant coast of France, which stretched nied by Lady Montfort and her grand- its blue expanse at their feet. daughter, should remove to Lord De- The road for some time wound along lamere's seat in Devonshire, and spend the highest part of a hill, then by a some weeks previous to their going to inore gradual descent led them to a town. Sydney was to accompany them, rich valley, bounded on one side by a as his health was not yet sufficiently white pebbly beach, and on every other re-established to permit of his resum- by hills of irregular outline, cleft by ing his professional avocations. But deep ravines, from whose bosoms many Mr Bouverie expected soon to be called a rushing stream poured forth its pure to town, and Mrs Bouverie intended to waters to mingle with the tide. accompany or follow him, as soon as Upon the declivity of one of these she should have seen Lucy comfortably hills, close to the largest of the raestablished at Carbrook Castle. vines, Carbrook Castle reared its proud

They began their journey on a beau- battlements from the midst of embowertiful spring morning, and travelling by ing woods. short stages that the journey might be In a few days after their arrival, as little fatiguing to Lucy as possible, Lord Delamere and Mr Bouverie set they reached their destination on the out for London, promising, however, to evening of the succeeding day.

return before Easter, when, after Lucy seemed as if awakened to the spending that season together in the enjoyment of a new existence, while country, the whole family proposed reshe luxuriated in the loveliness of the turning to town.

а

Lucy rapidly regained her strength, application of her words, till raising and to Mrs Bouverie, who had searcely her eyes she encountered those of less than herself needed the reviving Sydney, which for the last few moments sea breezes, that seemed to bear had been fixed upon her. She blushed health on their wings, Lucy's recovery and turned away, but that brief glance proved the best restorative.

had spoken volumes to the heart of Constance passed her days in each, and both now. felt that words dream of delight. She had never be- were not needed to tell that they fore lived upon the coast, and she was loved. never weary of rambling, accompanied “Do you remember, Isabella,” said by Sydney, at early noon and late at Constance, as they drove together to eve, along the beach, or of climbing the Middleton, “ that you began once at beetling rocks, and gazing from some Delamere to tell me of Gertrude's first pinnacle of their heights upon the wide history. Can you go on now? I always expanse of waters, now calm as the feel a kind of mystery hang over Gerrepose of a sleeping child, now tossing trude which I long to have unratheir angry surges, and showering velled." sometimes even around her white fea- “ Her story is a sad one,” replied Mrs thery spray that glittered like diamonds Bouverie,“ but the knowledge of her in the sunbeanis.

history will increase the interest which " Will you drive with me to-day to she has already excited, and heighten Middleton,” said Mrs Bouverie to the esteem which our dear Gertrude so Constance, one beautiful morning, a well merits. few week's after their arrival, “I should “It is now about four years since like to have the pleasure of shewing Gertrude made her first entrée into soyou as many of the beautiful scenes in ciety. I was then spending a few this neighbourhood as I can, before I weeks in town with Gertrude, who go to town.

“I shall be delighted to from childhood had been to me as a go with you Isabella,” said Constance, beloved sister ; and she had used many “ but do not speak of going to town; persuasions to induce me to accompany it always makes ine sad when I think her to the gay scenes upon which she of it; I wish you could remain till we was about to enter. It was the first all go."

time that I had ever resisted her soliciI shall only be a few weeks ab- tations; and I did not find it difficult to sent,” replied Mrs Bouverie, smiling, do it now, for I had long before fully “ You forget how near Easter is, and acquiesced, and from conviction of its then we shall all return to town to- truth, in the declaration of our Lord, gether.” “I do not altogether like 'Ye cannot serve two masters ;' and in that prospect," said Lucy. “It is al- cleaving unto Him whose love formed ways

trial to me to leave the coun- the sunshine of my life, I found it try just in its loveliest season ; yet I easy-Oh how easy, to despise the would rather be altogether even in transitory pleasures of the world. London, and in the height of summer, “On the evening of the first day of than have our party divided.”

her entrance into the gay world, we Would you really like to spend had coffee brought to us in Gertrude's the whole year in the country, Lucy ?” boudoir, that we might not be intersaid Constance.

rupted; and we had almost forgotten I should,” replied Lucy, “ for I all but the subject that engrossed us, have here the society of all the friends when the striking of the time-piece whom I most dearly love, and the that stood near, recalled us to a recountry at all seasons has charms for membrance of the hour. me.'

6 So I have felt it,” replied " I was foolish, enough, Constance," Constance sadly, as her thoughts re- continued Mrs Bouverie, smiling sadly, verted to the past, " and could we all “to burst into tears. " Ah, Gertrude,'I remain together, I too would rather said, " I feel as if all our pleasant hours stay here."

were over now, and our path through She was unconscious of the secret lifo had reached the point at which we

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