"THESE THREE."

1ST COR. XIII. 13.

Albeit she saw not, she believed on Him,

For his kind words at length had reached her heart,
And there ta'en root; and now, as with a start,

That stood revealed which had erewhile been dim.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life: believ'st thou this?" Oh, yes! and, clinging steadfast to the Cross,

She counted worldly vantage now as dross.

Was not the Great Atoner hers, as she was His?

A peaceful smile o'erspread her face, while tears

Of gratitude well'd from her dove-like eyes.

Bright through these orbs which gem the midnight skies, How dull they glow compared to FAITH when fears Evanish for the doubting soul finds rest

When FAITH enthrones her in the human breast.

Oh star, fair star! that on the brow of night
Art like a jewel in a princely crown,
So bright thy radiance! oh star, look down
With pity on me from thy meteless height
And say what lies beyond my longing sight.

I

may not know, but I believe there stands

My Father's home, the house not made with hands.
When I am laid within my mother's womb,
And in corruption fades each lifeless limb,
Say, shall my spirit upward soar to Him,
Mounting in triumph from an earthly tomb?
Feed me, fair HOPE! sustain me with thy power,
And shine thy brightest in my dying hour.

To lighten misery, and to aid the poor,
Was now her task self-chosen; and each day
Beheld her pass untiring on her way,
Now at the outcast's, now the pauper's door.
Kind words she gave them; little acts of grace
She scattered, as one scattereth seeds,
In that poor soil where hitherto but weeds
Of sin and ignorance had thriven apace.
And, lo! they sprouted: tender shoots at first,
Warring 'gainst influences of long years,
But gaining daily, till at last they burst
Into a golden harvest of ripe ears.

Oh, stars of FAITH and HOPE, though bright ye be,
The fairest in the firmament is CHARITY.

THE SONG OF THE SHELL.

I sat upon a shell-strewn beach and dreamed the hours away, As to my childhood's days I let my wandering memory stray. When but a boy I sported there in innocence and glee,

Or bathed my youthful limbs within the ever-bright blue sea.

With steady skilful hand, whose scope is ever great and vast,
The artist memory pourtrayed the ne'er returning past,

And scenes of grief arrayed themselves before my fancy's view, Mixed with those pleasant scenes of joy when time too swiftly flew.

As thus I mused, I careless stooped to lift a tiny shell,
And listened to the music soft that issued from its cell;

'Twas a low sweet strain of sadness, as when summer winds expire,

And waft their dying breath across some lady's gilded lyre.

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As thus I listened, thus I thought, Oh, shell of snow-white
hue,
Dost ever think of days gone by, hast thou thy memories too?"
It murmured louder than before, and thus it seemed to say :--

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Yes, I have visions of the past, of days long passed away, Long, long I lay upon the strand in India's sunny clime, And then existence was to me an endless summer time; Untainted by the foot of nan, unstained by human hand, Charmed by the music of the sea I lay upon the strand. Till my peace was broken by a wave far ruder than the rest, Which bore my trembling form away upon its watery breast; And now upon its surface blue, now sinking 'neath the sea, I was wafted o'er the ocean wide, my sunny clime, from thee.

"I've seen the water-nymphs deck'd out in pale sea-green attire ;
I've heard the melodies they sung, and seen their eyes of fire;
I've seen their long and floating locks of autumn's golden hue;
I've rested on their bosoms white, and kiss'd their fingers too.
I've listened to their silvery tones, as with enchanting strain,
They drew the seamen to their arms ne'er to return again.
I've seen the little nautilus, with tiny hoisted sail,
Ride safely o'er the waters deep in many a stormy gale;
I've seen a sight, a solemn sight, forget I never can,

The fleshless bones of what was once a god-like image-man,
The long and bony fingers clutched in death-grasp to the gold
So worthless now to him o'er whom the crested billows rolled;
I've seen two bony arms embrace a smaller frame of bone,
As if together they would be when life itself had flown;

No smile was beaming on the face, now grown so wan and wild-
I knew these skeletons had been a mother and her child.
I've seen the coral islands rise like mushrooms from the sea
Gigantic statues of the power of ceaseless industry;

I've looked on many a mammoth whale, on many a greedy shark:

I've seen the swordfish pierce the keel of many a stout-built hark;

I've wept to see the fatal net launched from the fishing-boat,
And seen the eyes of ruthless men with pleasure o'er it gloat.
I've seen Death in his majesty ride o'er the stormy sea;
And many a gallant ship go down into eternity;

I've heard the storm-king's fiendish laugh as cries of wild despair From drowning wretches floated through the cheerless midnight

air;

I've seen the ocean in a calm when scarce a billow roll'd;

And 'neath the noon-tide's brilliant sun bathed in a sea of gold.
All these I've seen, and many more, while drifting o'er the main,
But now they're memories to me, I'll ne'er see them again,
For winds and waves have borne me unto this distant shore,
And to my native strand I may return again no more."

Thus sang the shell, at least I thought 'twas thus it sang to me;
And touched with pity for its fate, I threw it in the sea,
And trusted to the friendly waves to bear the stranger home
Unto that sunny clime whence it unwillingly had come.

ча

DAVID HUTCHESON

AS born at Inverkeithing, in 1799, and was brought to Port Glasgow in infancy. There, as a boy, he saw the launch of the "Comet,' the first steamer built on the Clyde. In early youth he found employment at the steamers carrying cargo between Glasgow and the lower ports, and eventually became the originator and head of the well-known firm of Messrs David Hutcheson & Co., the owners and managers of the steamers plying between Glasgow and the Highlands. He died at Glasgow, in 1880, and at the time of his death he was probably the oldest man connected with steam navigation in Europe, or perhaps the world.

Although Mr Hutcheson led a busy useful life, he frequently courted the Muses, and might be said to have been a rhymer from his youth. He contributed numerous poems to the newspapers and literary journals, and these give evidence of a loving, tuneful heart, and much spontaneous fervour.

"LOCHABER NO MORE!"

Lochaber farewell! there is snow on the hill,

And the breeze, as it sighs through Glen Nevis, is chill; No longer the linnet is trilling his lay,

And the bloom of the heather is fading away.

Yet Spring will return over mountain and glen,
And the wilderness blossom in beauty again;
The linnet wilt carol his songs as of yore,
But we may return to Lochaber no more.

Ah! would it were only the sweet month of June,
With its beautiful verdure, the birds all in tune,
And its golden light streaming afar through the glen-
Away would we hie to the mountains again.
For the winter is long, and we cannot fortell
What sorrows amid the dark future may dwell;
The lark to the summer cloud gaily will soar,
But we may return to Lochaber no more.

FAREWELL REQUEST.

When I am dead, oh, lay me not

Within the churchyard's crumbling walls,
But bear me to some lonely spot

Of greenwood groves and waterfalls;
Where violets bloom and daisies spring,
And the glad lark at dawn of day
Waves the cold night-dew from his wing,
And, singing, soars to heaven away.

For I would wish my bones to lie

Among those scenes I've loved so well;
The mountain glen, the gorgeous sky,
The murmuring brook, the ferny dell.
And where were sepulchre more meet
For me than 'mong dear Oban's braes,
Where oft in contemplation sweet

I rambling tuned my simple lays.

So, when I'm dead, oh, lay me not
Within the churchyard's crumbling walls,

But bear me to some lonely spot

Of green wood groves and waterfalls;
Where violets bloom, and daisies spring,
And the glad lark at dawn of day
Waves the cold night-dew from his wing,
And, singing, soars to heaven away.

THE DAY-DREAM.

I dreamt a pleasant dream to-day,
Unlike those visions wild, whose fears,
Chase the lone sleeper's rest away:
Mine was a dream of former years.

And well it might be pleasant, for
I dreamt it in a lonely vale,
Where, sweetly from the hawthorn hoar,
The linnet told his love-lorn tale.

And there were pleasant things around-
Green branching trees and flowerets fair,
And gurgling streams, whose gentle sound
Murmured like music in the air.
Ev'n as you see the light clouds roll
Along the hill then melt away,

So there are thoughts that shade the Soul
Transient and beautiful as they.

And phantom dreams that haunt our sleep
The Soul's mysterious secrets show,
As bubbles rising from the deep

Reveal the life that throbs below.
Oft have I gazed upon the Star

Of Evening, twinkling in its sphere,
With sadness strange, yet sweeter far
Than sounds melodious to the ear.

And thus, altho' the spirit feels

No brooding sorrow lowering nigh,
A melancholy o'er it steals

And yet we know nor how, nor why.
And so it came in pensive mood

I wandered through the vale alone,
Where, solemnised by solitude,

I dreamt of friends long dead and gone.

Bright apparitions were they all,

Fair forms I counted o'er and o'er :
But chiefly did my heart recall

One I ador'd in days of yore.

She was the darling of my life,

For whose pure love long, long 1 sighed

My own, my dear, my beauteous wife!
But ah! in early youth she died!

JAMES BALLANTINE.

LIKE many Scotchmen who have made their

mark in business or literature, James Ballantine was in the best sense of the term a self-made