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-

"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 licensed as a preacher."

The child looked wistfully up again→→
"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,

66

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!

"For my 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!"

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

They have set his head 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 hair;

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 failed 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.

Lucy rapidly regained her strength, and to Mrs Bouverie, who had scarcely less than herself needed the reviving sea breezes, that seemed to bear health on their wings, Lucy's recovery proved the best restorative.

Constance passed her days in a dream of delight. She had never before lived upon the coast, and she was never weary of rambling, accompanied by Sydney, at early noon and late at eve, along the beach, or of climbing the beetling rocks, and gazing from some pinnacle of their heights upon the wide expanse of waters, now calm as the repose of a sleeping child, now tossing their angry surges, and showering sometimes even around her white feathery spray that glittered like diamonds in the sunbeams.

"Will you drive with me to-day to Middleton," said Mrs Bouverie to Constance, one beautiful morning, a few week's after their arrival, “I should like to have the pleasure of shewing you as many of the beautiful scenes in this neighbourhood as I can, before I go to town. "I shall be delighted to go with you Isabella," said Constance, "but do not speak of going to town; it always makes me sad when I think of it; I wish you could remain till we all go."

"I shall only be a few weeks absent,” replied Mrs Bouverie, smiling, "You forget how near Easter is, and then we shall all return to town together." "I do not altogether like that prospect," said Lucy. "It is always a trial to me to leave the country just in its loveliest season; yet I would rather be altogether even in London, and in the height of summer, than have our party divided.”

"Would you really like to spend the whole year in the country, Lucy?" said Constance.

"I should," replied Lucy, "for I have here the society of all the friends whom I most dearly love, and the country at all seasons has charms for me." "So I have felt it," replied Constance sadly, as her thoughts reverted to the past, "and could we all remain together, I too would rather stay here.

application of her words, till raising her eyes she encountered those of Sydney, which for the last few moments had been fixed upon her. She blushed and turned away, but that brief glance had spoken volumes to the heart of each, and both now felt that words were not needed to tell that they loved.

"Do you remember, Isabella," said Constance, as they drove together to Middleton, "that you began once at Delamere to tell me of Gertrude's first history. Can you go on now? I always feel a kind of mystery hang over Gertrude which I long to have unravelled."

"Her story is a sad one," replied Mrs Bouverie, "but the knowledge of her history will increase the interest which she has already excited, and heighten the esteem which our dear Gertrude so well merits.

"It is now about four years since Gertrude made her first entrée into society.

I was then spending a few weeks in town with Gertrude, who from childhood had been to me as a beloved sister; and she had used many persuasions to induce me to accompany her to the gay scenes upon which she was about to enter. It was the first time that I had ever resisted her solicitations; and I did not find it difficult to do it now, for I had long before fully acquiesced, and from conviction of its truth, in the declaration of our Lord, 'Ye cannot serve two masters;' and in cleaving unto Him whose love formed the sunshine of my life, I found it easy-Oh how easy, to despise the transitory pleasures of the world.

"On the evening of the first day of her entrance into the gay world, we had coffee brought to us in Gertrude's boudoir, that we might not be interrupted; and we had almost forgotten all but the subject that engrossed us, when the striking of the time-piece that stood near, recalled us to a remembrance of the hour.

"I was foolish, enough, Constance," continued Mrs Bouverie, smiling sadly, "to burst into tears. Ah, Gertrude,' L said, 'I feel as if all our pleasant hours were over now, and our path through

She was unconscious of the secret life had reached the point at which we