A glory is circling the stern dark brow Of Dunedin's fortress old, And a gleam is waking more faintly now Where one hath risen-but not from sleep- "True wife! what aileth thee now to weep, There are mustering groups in the silent streets, One mighty load upon every breast, And still in its joy, o'er that joyless throng, The man was woe-worn, past all relief, So sunny-it seemed that no frost of grief And onward he tripped at the old man's side, And smiled in the face of his ancient guide, As to bid his grief begone! And still as the sunbeam before him danced His little hands he would clap entranced, "Oh, whist ye my bairn," said the old man then, 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, "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→→ He sends the sun, and He stays the rain- They have entered in by the dismal door, And the mirth of the young child's heart's is o'er, With a shuddering dread, as the harsh key grates, 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,* "Now rest thee, my Willie, upon my knee, 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, 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, "For my Master's honour-my Master's crown- And the orphans' God shall look kindly down, I seal thee now with my parting kiss, Till at His right hand we meet– Death! death! thy bitterest drop is this- The child clings close to his father' heart, A gentle force-but they needs must part- Once more they are treading the crowded street, But no longer the sunlight smiled, And looks of pity from some they meet, "Yon darksome thing that shuts out the sky, It scares my heart, though I know not why, 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, And months go bye, and the winter's snow 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, 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, And the heart of the tyrant hath failed for fear, There were prophet words on those lips in death, And she looks for her God's awakening breath, They may scatter their dust to the winds of heaven, 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, A fair, pale child, with a faded cheek, In the early dawn, at the fall of eve, And he doth not weep-and he doth not grieve, A child in whom childhood's life is dead— And he gazes up at that awful head, As though it held speech with him! Oh! a strange, sad sight, was the converse mute And thoughts in that young child's soul took root, 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, For the peace of God was his portion now, The martyr's God had looked kindly down, And the Spirit had sealed him for His own, 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, CONSTANCE LYNDSAY; OR THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. CHAPTER V. THE month of January had now passed, and February was ushered in by mild and genial weather. Dr Sefton was anxious that as early as possible in the season, Lucy should try the benefit of change of air, and about the middle of February it was arranged that the whole party, accompanied by Lady Montfort and her granddaughter, should remove to Lord Delamere's seat in Devonshire, and spend some weeks previous to their going to town. Sydney was to accompany them, as his health was not yet sufficiently re-established to permit of his resuming his professional avocations. But Mr Bouverie expected soon to be called to town, and Mrs Bouverie intended to accompany or follow him, as soon as she should have seen Lucy comfortably established at Carbrook Castle. They began their journey on a beautiful spring morning, and travelling by short stages that the journey might be as little fatiguing to Lucy as possible, they reached their destination on the evening of the succeeding day. Lucy seemed as if awakened to the enjoyment of a new existence, while she luxuriated in the loveliness of the scene, for which she had exchanged the confinement of a chamber of sickness. They were approaching the termination of their journey, when she exclaimed, “Hush, surely I hear the murmur of waters." It was the English Channel, bounded only by the distant coast of France, which stretched its blue expanse at their feet. The road for some time wound along the highest part of a hill, then by a more gradual descent led them to a rich valley, bounded on one side by a white pebbly beach, and on every other by hills of irregular outline, cleft by deep ravines, from whose bosoms many a rushing stream poured forth its pure waters to mingle with the tide. Upon the declivity of one of these hills, close to the largest of the ravines, Carbrook Castle reared its proud battlements from the midst of embowering woods. In a few days after their arrival, Lord Delamere and Mr Bouverie set out for London, promising, however, to return before Easter, when, after spending that season together in the country, the whole family proposed returning to town. 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 |