Long had the spot unmarked remained,
Save by the moss-stone weather stained,
But known full well to many a one
Through changing generations,
Traditionally, from sire to son,

Whilst crowns and sceptres, lost and won,
Made strife among the nations.

At length, slight tribute to their fame!
That stone which bears their honoured name,
Far up on the horizon's rim,

Records their mournful story;
Heraldic pomp grows mean and dim,
War's proudest triumphs swart and grim,
Contrasted with their glory!

For Christ's dear sake, they left their all,
By Christ's blest cause to stand or fall,
Braving the worldling's loud disdain,-
Man's fellest wrath enduring;

But strong in faith of Jesus slain,
With him to mount, with him to reign,
Unending bless securing.

A relic, shown with miser care,
A treasured lock of auburn hair,

Was kept by those the stone that reared,
Struck all with breathless wonder,

When, as if yesterday interred,
Those martyrs to the gaze appeared,
Short space the moss-turf under.

Ah, who can tell what hearts were wrung
For those lone sleepers, fair and young !-
What high-wrought hopes, what breathings fond,
In those dark days and olden,

Were drown'd in tears for him that owned
That ringlet soft and golden!

THE PANG O' LOVE.

The pang o' love is ill to dree--
Hech wow! the biding o't--
'Twas like to prove the death o' me,
I strove sae lang at hiding o't.

When first I saw the wicked thing,
I wistna it meant ill to me:
I straiked its bonny head and wing,
And took the bratchet on my knee;
I kiss'd it ance, I kiss'd it twice,
Sae kind was I in guiding o't,
When, whisk!—it shot me in a trice,
And left me to the biding o't.

An' hey me! how me!

Hech wow! the biding o't!
For ony ill I've had to dree
Was naething to the biding o't.
The doctors' pondered lang and sair,
To rid me o' the stanging o't;
The skeely wives a year and mair,
They warstled hard at banging o't.
But doctors' drugs did fient a haet-
Ilk wifie quat the guiding o't-
They turned, and left me to my fate,
Wi' naething for't but biding o't.
An' hey me! how me! etc.

When friends had a' done what they dought,
Right sair bumbazed my state to see,
A bonny lass some comfort brought-
I'll mind her till the day I dee;

I tauld her a' my waefu' case,

And how I'd stri'en at hiding o't,
And blessings on her bonny face!
She saved me frae the biding o't.
An' hey me! how me! etc.

DINNA GREET FOR ME.

O gently, gently raise me up on this sad bed, my spouse,
To look ance mair upon the wood where first we changed vows;
The Spring is comin', Jeanie, for the trees begin to blaw,
But ere the leaf is fully blawn, a widow's tears will fa'!
My heart is beatin' loud and fast, and ilka beat a pang,
The dead-bell soundin' in my lug has tauld me I maun gang,
And death has come to our bedside, but oh ! its hard to dee,
And part wi' a' I've loved sae weel-yet dinna greet for me!
I had a waefu' dream yestreen-what gars me tell it now?-
Methought I saw a stranger lad, and he was courtin' you;
But the willow-tree hung o'er you, for I watched its brances wave,
And the wither'd bink ye sat on was a newly cover'd grave!
The heavy moon was risin' on the simmer day's decline,
And dead men's banes a' glimmer'd white beneath the pale moon-
shine.

It was a sad ungratefu' dream-for, oh! your kindly e'e
Has mair than warld's wealth in its look-ye maunna greet for
me!

We'll meet within a happier land that opens to my view;
And yet Heav'n kens, my earthly heart wad rather stay wi' you,
Wi' you and that wee bairn, that ance we thocht sae muckle bliss,
Ower weak a flower to leave alane in sic a warld as this!
For mony a tear her little e'e may ha'e to gather yet,
And haply mony a wearie gait awaits her hamless fit;
But "The Father of the fatherless" maun fend for her and
thee-

To doubt wad be a sin, my Jean-sae dinna greet for me!

REV. ROBERT E. MURRAY

S the younger brother of the subject of the preceding sketch. The life of the younger brother was very much that of the elder. They studied together at the same seminaries of learning, and in the summer months they read the Greek and Roman poets together, and likewise luxuriated in the enticing fields of modern literature. While we know that at college the name of James was always to be found in the prize list, Robert, though too modest to say anything on this matter as regards himself, was nevertheless a favourite student of the late Dr Chalmers. As we have already stated, Robert was ordained minister of the parish of New Cumnock at the Disruption, and here he still continues to labour for the good of his people. Although he has long cultivated literature, yet he has never allowed his love for and his pursuit of it to interfere with the higher interests of his flock.

Besides occasionally contributing to the periodicals, Mr Murray, in 1871, published "The Day-Spring from on High, and other Poems; and, more recently, he has brought out "The Scriptural Doctrine of Repentance unto Life," a series of twelve superior sermons. Both volumes were received with high favour, and a second edition of "The Day-Spring from on High," with several poems added, is passing through the press at the time we write.

The Day-Spring from on High" is a lengthy poem showing the dealings of the Creator with mankind. down through the ages, proving a Divine revelation, and vindicating the ways of God to man. Written

in the octosyllabic measure, which is managed with graceful ease, and a fine melodious ring, the reasoning is conducted with great power, notwithstanding

that such a measure is not the best adapted for argument. We give the concluding lines of

THE DAY SPRING.

Say not that more might have been done,
That witness, constant as the sun,
Still breaking through the shades of night
Might flood the soul with heavenly light.
Must Christ's confessors still expire,
Tortured amid the sluggish fire?
Must idle throngs still feast their eyes
With the meek sufferer's agonies?
Must Christ in his afflicted saints
Still bear His cross until He faints,
And, lifted up on tree accursed,
Plead for his murderers as at first?
Awake, awake, ye martyred bands,
The Lord's first fruits in many lands,
What golden harvests did ye reap
In that dark hour ye fell asleep,
When, bidding things of time farewell
Ye triumphed o'er the pow'rs of hell?

Say when your heart-strings throbbed with pain,
And boiled your blood in every vein,
What power unseen afforded strength
Till, rising into life at length,
The tortured Spirit sighed no more,
The victory won--the contest o'er.

From every land, from every clime,
With earnest cry, the course of time
Proclaims the triumph of the faith,
And oft to sinful man it saith:

"That counsel shun which makes you stray
In sinful error's treacherous way.'

The mighty voices of the past

Dissuade from joys which cannot last,

Through awful depths of hallow'd ground,
By sacred fane and holy mound,

They break like thunder on the ear,

And fill the anxious heart with fear.

Yes: Thus, though dead, the martyr speaks
To him who o'er the Record weeps

Of deadly hate-of truth oppressed

When 'mid the fires Christ was confessed.
Away, then shades of unbelief,

And all that ne'er yet brought relief

To weary soul in depths of woe

The peace and joy and hope, which flow
From faith unfeigned, alone can give
A balm to him who seeks to live-
To live in that eternal light
Which, breaking on the eager sight,

Will guide through want, and grief and pain,
To Heavenly rest with Christ to reign.
"Lord, teach my heart to know thy ways,
O keep my feet from error's maze,
Thy Holy Spirit ever send,

That sins, which would my heart-life rend,
May be reproved through Heavenly grace;
Yea, all that's false be pleas'd to efface
Till on the tablets of my mind
Not any blemish Thou shalt find.
When troubles cloud my heaven-ward way,
And false I feel each earthly stay,
Uphold me with Thine own right hand,
O bring me to the Better Land.

THE AUTUMN LEAF.

The autumn leaf-Ah me! how soon
The summer days roll by :
It seems to me but yesterday
Since laughing spring was nigh,
And yet the yellow autumn leaf
Whispers the time is not so brief.

The autumn leaf-Thou withering thing,
What sermons dost thou tell!

"Tis not alone of woodland gay

And solitary dell

Thou lov'st to speak.-Thy rustling breath

Speaks of frail man's decay and death.

Thou hast a tale of spring-tide hours,

Frail emblem of decay,

How opening buds of early flowers
Smiled on the coming May.
Alas! alas! that things so fair
Should wither in the summer air.

A tale thou hast of sunny hours
When sped the month of June;
Methinks I hear thee sadly sigh,
The longest had its noon.

And then, far in the western wave
The dying day sought its ocean grave.

"Infant, roaming 'mid the flowers,

Hither wend with rapid feet,

Dost thou mark yon sered leaf
Quivering o'er the garden seat?

Say: Dost thou mark it? Mark it well,
For lessons sage a leaf may tell.