James Russell seized a sword from one of his associates, dismounted, and at the coach-door called to the Archbishop, whom he designated Judas, to come forth.” Sir William Sharp's account of what now occurred, which would be doubtless related to him by his sister, is as follows : “They fired several shots at the coach, and commanded my dearest father to come out, which he said he would. When he had come out, not being yet wounded, he said, Gentlemen, I beg my life!' 'No- bloody villain, betrayer of the cause of Christ-no mercy!' Then said he, - I ask none for myself, but have mercy on my poor child !' and, holding up his hand to one of them to get his, that he would spare his child, he cut him on the wrist. Then falling down upon his knees, and holding up his hands, he prayed that God would forgive them; and begging mercy for his sins from his Saviour, they murdered him by sixteen great wounds in his back, head, and one above his left eye, three in his left hand when he was holding it up, with a shot above his left breast, which was found to be powder. After this damnable deed they took the papers out of his pocket, robbed my sister and their servants of all their papers, gold, and money, and one of these hellish rascals cut my sister on the thumb, when she had him by the bridle begging her father's life.”

So died with the calmness and intrepidity of a martyr this reverend and learned prelate, maligned indeed by the fanatics of his own and succeeding ages, but reverenced and beloved by those who best knew his innate worth, unostentatious charity, and pure piety of soul. In the words of a worthy Presbyterian divine of last century, —“ His inveterate enemies are agreed in ascribing to him the high praise of a beneficent and humane disposition. He bestowed a considerable part of his income in ministering to pressing indigence, and relieving the wants of private distress. In the exercise of his charity, he had no contracted views. The widows and orphans of the Presbyterian brethren richly shared his bounty without knowing whence it came. He died with the intrepidity of a hero, and the piety of a Christian, praying for the assassins with his latest breath."

GENTLY ye fall, ye summer showers,

On blade, and leaf, and tree;
Ye bring a blessing to the earth,

But nane-O nane, to me!
Ye cannot wash this red right hand

Free from its deadly stain,
Ye cannot cool the burning ban

That lies within my brain.
O be ye still, ye blithesome birds,

Within the woodland spray,
And keep your songs within your hearts

Until another day :
And cease to fill the blooming brae

With warblings light and clear,
For there's a sweeter song than yours

That I maun never hear.
It was upon the Magus Muir

Within the lanesome glen,
That in the gloaming hour I met

Wi’ Burley and his men.
Our hearts were hard as was the steel

We bore within the hand ;
But harder was the heart of him

That led that bluidy band.
Dark lay the clouds upon the west

Like mountains huge and still :

And fast the summer lightning leaped

Behind the distant hill.
It shone on grim Rathillet's brow

With pale and ghastly glare:
I caught the glimpse of his cold gray eye-

There was MURDER glittering there!

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Away, away! o'er bent and hill,

Through moss and muir we sped :
Around us roared the midnight storm,

Behind us lay the dead.
We spoke no word, we made no sign

But blindly rade we on,
For an angry voice was in our ears'

That bade us to begone,
We were brothers all baptised in blood,

Yet sought to be alone!
Away, away! with headlong speed

We rade through wind and rain,
And never more upon the earth

Did we all meet again.
There's some have died upon the field,

And some upon the tree,
And some are bent and broken men

Within a far countrie,
But the heaviest curse hath lighted down

On him that tempted me!
O hame, hame, hame!—that holy place-

There is nae hame for me!
There's not a child that sees my face

But runs to its mither's knee.
There's not a man of woman born

That dares to call me kin-
O grave! wert thou but deep enough

To hide me and my sin !
I wander east, I wander west,

I neither can stop nor stay,
But I dread the night when all men rest

Far more than the glint of day.
O weary night, wi' all its stars

Sae clear, and pure, and hie!
Like the eyes of angels up in heaven

That will not weep for me!
weary night, wlien the silence lies

Around me, broad and deep,
And dreams of earth, and dreams of heaven,

That vex me in my sleep.
For aye I see the murdered man,

As on the muir he lay,
With his pale white face, and reverend head,

And his locks sae thin and gray;
And my hand grows red with the holy blude

I shed that bitter day !
O were I but a water drop

To melt into the sea

But never water yet came down

Could wash that blude from me!
And O! to dream of that dear heaven

That I had hoped to win-
And the heavy gates o' the burning gowd

That will not let me in!
I hear the psalm that's sung in heaven,

When the morning breaks sae fair,
And my soul is sick wi' the melodie

Of the angels quiring there.
I feel the breath of God's ain flowers

From out that happy land,
But the fairest flower o' Paradise

Would wither in my hand.
And aye before me gapes a pit

Far deeper than the sea,
And waefi' sounds rise up below,

And deid men call on me.
O that never had been born,

And ne'er the light had seen!
Dear God—to look on yonder gates

And this dark gulf between!
O that a wee wee bird wad come

Though 'twere but ance a-year !
And bring but sae much mool and earth

As its sma' feet could bear,
And drap it in the ugsome hole

That lies 'twixt heaven and me,
I yet might hope, ere the warld were dune,

My soul might saved be!

W. E. A.

A NOVEMBER MORNING'S REVERIE.

BY DELTA.

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Hast thou a chamber in the utter West,
A cave of shelter from the glare of day,
Oh radiant Star of Morning! whose pure eye,
Like an archangel's, over the dim Earth,
With such ineffable effulgence shines ?
Emblem of Sanctity and Peace art thou !
Thou leavest man, what time to daily toil
His steps are bent—what time the bustling world
Usurps his thought; and, through the sunny hours,
Unseen, forgot, art like the things that were ;
But Twilight weeps for joy at thy return,
With brighter blaze the faggots on the hearth
Sparkle, and home records its happiest hour!
Hark! 'tis the Robin's shrill yet mellow pipe,
That in the voiceless calm of the young morn,
Commingles with my dreams :-lo! as I draw
Aside the curtains of my couch, he sits,
Deep over-bower'd by broad geranium leaves,
(Leaves trembling 'neath the touch of sere decay,)
Upon the dewy window-sill, and perks
His restless black eye here and there, in search
Of crumbs, or shelter from the icy breath

Of wild winds rushing from the Polar sea :
For now November, with a brumal robe,
Mantles the moist and desolated earth ;
Dim sullen clouds hang o'er the cheerless sky,
And yellow leaves bestrew the undergrove.
'Tis earliest sunrise. Through the hazy mass
Of vapours moving on like shadowy isles,
Athwart the pale, gray, spectral cope of heaven,
With what a feeble, inefficient glow
Looks out the Day; all things are still and calm,
Half wreathed in azure mist the skeleton woods,
And as a picture silent. Little bird !
Why with unnatural tameness comest thou thus,
Offering in fealty thy sweet simple songs
To the abode of man? Hath the rude wind
Chilled thy sweet woodland home, now quite despoiled
Of all its summer greenery, and swept
The bright, close, sheltering bowers, where merrily
Rang out thy notes--as of a haunting sprite,
There domiciled—the long blue summer through ?
Moulders untenanted thy trim-built nest,
And do the unpropitious fates deny
Food for thy little wants, and Penury,
With tiny grip, drive thee to dubious walls,-
Though terrors flutter at thy panting heart,-
To stay the pangs which must be satisfied ?
Alas! the dire sway of Necessity
Oft makes the darkest, most repugnant things
Familiar to us; links us to the feet
Of all we feared, or hated, or despised ;
And, mingling poison with our daily food,
Yet asks the willing heart and smiling cheek:
Yea! to our subtlest and most tyrannous foes,
May we be driven for shelter, and in such
May our sole refuge lie, when all the joys,
That, iris-like, wantoned around our paths
Of prosperous fortune, one by one have died;
When day shuts in upon our hopes, and night
Ushers blank darkness only. Therefore we
Should pity thee, and have compassion on
Thy helpless state, poor bird, whose loveliness
Is yet unscathed, and whose melodious notes,
(Sweeter by melancholy rendered,) steal
With a deep supplication to the heart,
Telling that thou wert happy once—that now
Thou art most destitute ; and yet, and yet-
Only were thy small pinching wants supplied
By Charity-couldst be most happy still !-
Is it not so?

Out on unfeeling man !
Will he who drives the beggar from his gates,
And to the moan of fellow-man shuts up
Each avenue of feeling-will he deign
To think that such as Thou deserve his aid?
No! when the gust raves, and the floods descend,
Or the frost pinches, Thou may'st, at dim eve,
With forced and fearful love approach his home,
What time, 'mid western mists, the broad, red sun,
Sinking, calls out from heaven the earliest star;
And the crisp blazing of the dry Yule-log

Flickers upon the pictured walls, and lights
By fits the unshutter'd lattice; but, in vain,
Thy chirp repeated earnestly; the flap,
Against the obdurate pane, of thy small wing ;-
He hears thee not-he heeds not-but, at morn,
The ice-enamoured schoolboy, early afoot,
Finds thy small bulk beneath the alder stump,
Thy bright eyes closed, and tiny talons clench'd,
Stiff in the gripe of death.

The floating plume
Tells how the wind blows, with a certainty
As great as doth the vessel's full-swoln sheets;
So doth the winged seed ; 'tis not alone
In mighty things that we may truliest read
The heart, but in its temper and its toue:-
Thus true Benevolence we ever find
Forgiving, gentle, tremblingly alive
To pity, and unweariedly intent
On all the little, thousand charities,
Which day by day calls forth. Oh! as we hope
Forgiveness of our earthly trespasses, –
Of all our erring deeds and wayward thoughts, -
When Time's dread reckoning comes,-oh! as we hope
Mercy, who need it much, let us, away
From kindness never turning, mould our hearts
To sympathy, and from all withering blight
Preserve them, and all deadening influences :-
So 'twill be best for us. The All-seeing Eye,
Which numbers each particular hair, and notes
From heaven the sparrow's fall, shall pass not o'er
Without approval deeds unmarked by man-
Deeds, which the right hand from the left conceals-
Nor overlook the well-timed clemency,
That soothed and stilled the murmurs of distress.
Enamour'd of all mysteries, in love
With doubt itself, and fond to disbelieve,
We ask not, “if realities be real ?"
With Plato, or with Berkeley ; but we know
Life comes not of itself, and what hath life,
However insignificant it seem
To us, whose noblest standard is ourselves,
Hath been by the Almighty's finger touch'd,
Or ne'er had been at all-it must be so.
Therefore 'tis by comparison alone
That things seem great or small; and noblest they
Whose sympathies, with a capacious range,
Would own no limit to their fond embrace.
Yea, there, as in all else, doth Duty dwell
With happiness : for far the happiest he,
Who through the roughnesses of life preserves
His boyish feelings, and who sees the world,
Not as it is in cold reality,
A motley scene of struggle and of strife,
But tinted with the glow of bright romance :
For him the morning has its star; the sun,
Rising or setting, fires for him the clouds
With glory ; flowers for him have tales,
Like those which, for a thousand nights and one,
Enchained the East; each season as it rolls
Strikes in his bosom its peculiar chord,

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