Once more their pious bosoms proudly swell To list the tinkling of the Sabbath-bell.

And thither pilgrims flocked from many a clime,
Where love to God or freedom was a crime;
And when at last, across the severing wave,
A giant-arm was stretched to crush the brave,
When Britain strove to impose the tyrant-yoke,
"Twas then the glorious cry for Freedom woke:
The stirring memory of want and wrong,
Sustained in various lands from whence they
sprung,

Bound in one resolute devoted band

The scattered children of that foster-land: The patriot-ranks the stalwart woodmen own, Beneath whose arm majestic forests groan.

The peasant, lingering round his home, surveys
His log-built cabin 'midst the flowering maize;
Then leaves his sobbing spouse and sportive child,
To wrestle for his treasures in the wild.
The aged sire, whose now-reposing arm
The waste transmuted to the cultured farm,
In hopes to spend his age among his race,
Fights for the sweet spot in the desert place.
To such a glorious band, 'mong whom was none
Who could not call some spot of earth his own,
What are the tools that tyrants cast away,
When at their game of lives they chance to play?
Freedom prevailed, and left this truth sublime
To her fond worshippers of future time,-
All have the power who wish but to be free;
A truth we owe, America! to thee.

Long has the venturous, woe-worn exile-band
Proclaimed thy woody shore the poor man's land,
Where all may boast some little spot of earth,
Where waves their grain, and glows the social
hearth.

That sunny spot becomes a guiding star
To suffering kindred in their homes afar,
To lure the victims sad of want and power
To happier shores in Fortune's troubled hour,
Where work the peasant and mechanic's hand
Changes more rapid than enchanter's wand.
Where late the jaguar shunned the noonday heat,
The laden wain rolls up the crowded street;
And where the youth has marked the wild deer
shake

Their forked antlers by the crystal lake,
And, never daunted by the woodman's axe,
O'er the smooth water hold their arched necks,
Ere the few gladsome years of youth have flown,
Has marked the commerce of a busy town;
And in the lately silent creek has seen
The havened barks amid the foliage green.
Where the cold ague's treacherous poison sleeps,
And o'er its bed the noxious serpent creeps,
Soon shall the homesteads with their cornfields
shine,

Beside the smooth canal's long silvery line,

Adown whose glittering steps the ships shall go
To the broad waters of the lake below.
And where the Indian maid, with barbarous rite,
Mourns for her lover slain in savage fight,
And, with the bow and quiver in his hand,
Equips her warrior for the Spirit's Land,-
There human relics shall in peace be laid,
And o'er the sad ruin mournful honours paid,
Blended with faith that Christ will come again
To raise and beautify the prostrate fane.

HUMBIE WOOD, ABERDOUR.

At sultry noon or close of day
Alike I love the woodland way,

In Hillside's shady walks to stroll,
Or thread the path by hedge or rill
That leads to Humbie's wooded hill,
Conspicuous for its beauty still,

Though trees crown every knoll.

There visions charm the inward sight;
And waking dreams that please to-night
Will yield again their bliss to-morrow;
When on the leafy copse I look,
Or soaring tree, or flowery nook,
Or list the scarce-seen bickering brook
That runs the forest thorough.

Or mark the chestnut's floral crown,
And ancient pine of solemn brown

That knows the cushat's indraw crush;
Or watch, to waving boughs sublime,
The graceful squirrels nimbly climb,
While the plumed minstrels' mingled chime
Is heard from brake and bush.
But not these woodland sounds alone
To the rapt dreamer's ear is known;
But oft in opening glade it meets
Familiar sounds we love to hear,
From him who stoops the plough to stcer;
Or oxen low on hillocks near,

Or gamesome lambkin bleats.

Our piney wood and mountain thyme
The gorgeous flower of southern clime
In spicy fragrance far exceed;
Nor Araby a perfume knows
More rich than sweetbriar or the rose,
Or where the bean or hawthorn blows,
Or hay-cock scents the mead.
Awhile my tardy steps are stayed
Beside a beech prolix of shade,

Delicious in the summer noon;
Where in the cool sequestered bower

The speedwell grows, my fav'rite flower,
Or dandelion, that tells the hour,

The herdboy's clock in June.

Or o'er the ground the trees between,
The ivy spreads its matted green;

And honeysuckle climbs the tree—
Its odours sweet the insects note,
Which through the sylvan alleys float,
And lure from mossy haunts remote
The blossom-loving bee.

For where the honeysuckle climbs,
And ample spread the luscious limes,

The toilsome bees their nectar sip;
There too the nuts and berries grow,
Whose ripening time the schoolboys know-
The berry blue, and purple sloe,

The hazel and the hip.

Emerging from the forest glade;
Scenes fair as mortal e'er surveyed

Burst sudden on the raptured view:
For now the gleams of parting day
Tint rock and ruin, inch and bay,
And softly tip with slanting ray
The wavy Pentlands blue.

The boatman hoists his slender sail
To catch the new-born coming gale,

While sidelong lies the idle oar-
And sweetly musing feels the power
Of summer gloaming's witching hour,
When gazing on fair Aberdour

And its enchanting shore.

Or from the blue unruffled bay
Goes the wheeled bark no calms delay,
Or winds deter, these coasts between;
And from its deck the gazer sees
Wood-fringed shores that ever please,
Or the high Hewes' majestic trees,
And rocks with ivy green.

Northward, to woodland wanderers dear,
Cullalo hills their barrier rear,

Their summits with rich forest clad;
While downward severing clumps are seen,
And slender lines of hedgerow green,
With sloping sheltered fields between.

For coming harvest glad.

But now around the welkin's brim
Gather the shades of evening dim,

That soon familiar sights confuse;
Far-parted forests seem to meet,
Where swains in glade with hawthorn sweet,
As here, the tale of love repeat,

And fameless poets muse.

The milkmaid opes the paddock gate, Where kine distended meekly wait

That stated fill her shining pail. No more the rustics drudge and moil, Untrodden lies the fallowed soil, And all the sounds of ruder toil

Are hushed within the vale.

The daisy knows the dewy hour,
And careful folds the tender flower

Which opens to the morning sun;
The star of eve appears to view;
Thin wreaths of smoke, so faintly blue,
From hut and hamlet rise anew-
And the long day is done.

LINES

COMPOSED IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF
ABERDOUR.

The stately Norman church that shows
Its arches to the open sky,
The chancel where tall seedling grows,
And vault where nobles lie;
The nameless grave, the lettered stone,
To me are more congenial themes
On which to muse an hour alone

Than all ambition's dreams.

Here father, mother, children own

Some little spot of common earth, And cluster round the pillared stone As round the parent hearth. While some beneath those hillocks pressed Together share the dreamless sleep, Whose kindred take their lasting rest By distant shore and deep.

Some sleep on India's sultry shore,

One where the ocean waves o'erwhelm,
Some 'neath this antique sycamore,
And immemorial elm.

Yon tablet in the churchyard wall,
Reared by a sister's tender care,
Records the fate that haps to all—

The household's names are there.

And stones around are thickly strewed,
Which still the fond survivor rears,
Where homely rhymes and sculpture rude
Speak to our hopes and fears;
And holy text and humble lay

Foretell the Christian's endless bliss,
While star and sun still point the way
To brighter worlds than this.

And see, all eloquent of death,

Are skull and cross-bones side by side; The shuttle quaintly carved beneath Tells how the moments glide. The rose's stony petals there

Speak of a transient breath and bloom, Fit emblems of the loved and fair

Who find an early tomb.

And spindles rudely carved disclose
How fine the thread of life is spun;
This sand-glass to the gazer shows
How soon his race is run.
The muse in artless numbers sings

Her tribute to the good and just, While cherubim with outstretched wings Protects the honoured dust.

The worn and weary here at last
Repose upon their lowly bed,
And text and arrow tell how fast
Death's fatal weapon sped;

And how for them fond eyes were dim,
And tender hearts were torn;

While sculptured crowns still speak of Him
Who wore the crown of thorn.

Beyond the sycamores I mark

Th' inconstant ocean ebb and flow, O'er which the full-sailed barge and bark, Like wandering pilgrims go; While in the sheltered haven nigh, Meet images of perfect rest, Some safe from storms together lie,

In peaceful pennons dressed.

Below, the water of the Dour,

Like mortal being, glides away;
Aloft, the weather-wasted tower
Looks down in proud decay:
The ash-tree's verdant branches ware

Above the heaving, hallowed mould, That soon shall shed o'er tomb and grave Their leaves of paly gold.

Though here no more the anthems swell,
And holy men no longer preach,
Stream, tower, and tree of frailty tell;
While texts and verses teach,
Inscribed above the mortal dust

Which gathers round the house of prayer, That all who place in God their trust Immortal bliss shall share.

ROBERT MACNISH, M.D., author of the Anatomy of Drunkenness, the Philosophy of Sleep, and various contributions to Blackwood's Magazine, was born at Glasgow, February 15, 1802. After receiving the elements of education in his native city he was placed under the charge of the Rev. Alexander Easton of Hamilton, at that time at the head of a flourishing academy. The acquirement of the French language principally engaged the period between his leaving this school and his entering upon the study of medicine with his grandfather and father, who were then associated in practice in Glasgow. Having at the age of eighteen passed an examination before the College of Surgeons, he obtained from the University of Glasgow the degree of Magister Chirurgia. After eighteen months of country practice in Caithness, where his health failed, he went abroad and spent a year in Paris.

With the medical prelections of Broussais and the surgical ones of Dupuytren he was much delighted; he met Cuvier, and formed an acquaintanceship with Gall. On his return to Scotland he settled in Glasgow, which continued to be his place of residence until his death.

In 1826 Dr. Macnish became a contributor of prose and verse to the most celebrated magazine of the day-Blackwood. His elaborate treatises, more especially the Anatomy of Drunkenness and the Philosophy of Sleep, gained for him great reputation at home, and carried his name to the United States, from whence the degree of Doctor of Laws was sent to him. They were also translated into the French and German languages. Dr. Macnish died Jan. 16, 1837; and so perished in the prime of life, and in the bloom of his fame as well as of his professional usefulness, a man whom