I will come when shimmering up the sky The light of the day retreats on high, And darkening shadows unveiling lie Beneath the odorous limes. Here-here-here! My beautiful met at last. Here-here-here! My sheltering arm thou hast. The storms of life may fiercely blow, VERSES ADDRESSED TO HAW- A verse! My friend, 'tis hard to rhyme And yet, however hard it seems To generously comply, The heart, fraternal, throbbing, deems It harder to deny. Few love the weary winter time, When trees are gaunt and bare, And fields are gray with silver rime, And biting keen the air. Though all without is weird and waste, And shrill the tempest's din, With those well suited to our taste How bright is all within! NORMAN MACLEOD. BORN 1812-DIED 1872. NORMAN MACLEOD was born at Campbeltown, Argyleshire, June 3, 1812. He belonged 1 The following verses were composed at the urgent request of the late Nathaniel Hawthorne-a distinguished American writer, and an intimate and very dear friend of the author of them-on the occasion of the anniversary of the birth day of Mr. Hawthorne's daughter Una. Hence the allusion in the last verse. The poem was written in 1854, and is now first published. Mr. Hawthorne was then staying at Leamington, in Warwickshire, busy with the last sheets of his Italian romance Transformation. In the words of the to a race of ministers. His grandfather was the pastor of Morven, and was succeeded in author, "the verses bring up many pleasant recollections dimmed by the remembrance that he who could rouse with a skill unequalled the tenderest emotions, and depict with infinite power the deepest passions of the human heart, is mouldering in the tomb. Those who knew Mr. Hawthorne best loved him most; and all who were acquainted with the plans he had hoped to carry out regret that death should have stilled the heart and stayed the hand before his greatest work was accomplished."-ED. In 1860 Good Words was begun, a magazine which he continued to edit till his death; and every volume of it was enriched with much in prose and verse from his own pen. But it is to his tales that he chiefly owes his position in literature: "The Old Lieutenant and His Son;" "The Starling, a Scotch story;" the "Reminiscences of a Highland Parish," in which he gives a picture of life in the parish of Morven; "Character Sketches," containing eleven tales, among others "Billy Buttons," with its racy humour, and "Wee Davie," the best known and most pathetic of all his stories; and "Eastward," an account of his travels in Egypt and Palestine in 1865. These, which appeared originally in the pages of Good Words, were afterwards published separately at different times. In 1865 considerable excitement was produced in Scotland by his opposition to the strict views on the observance of the Sabbath laid down in a pastoral address which the pres that office by one of his sons, whose tall figure | that burned within himself. On all matters and stately gait procured for him the name pertaining to Christian life, every scheme that of "the high-priest of Morven." Norman's aimed at improving the social or moral confather was minister first of Campbeltown, after-dition of the working poor, no one could speak wards of Campsie, and finally of St. Columba with more eloquence than he, and no one was Church, in Glasgow. He was said to be one of ever listened to with more rapt attention. Nor the most eloquent Gaelic preachers of his day, all this time was his pen idle, as is shown by and was a great authority in all matters per- the large number of works published under taining to the Gaelic language. Norman was his name, including sermons, lectures, adeducated partly at the University of Glasgow, dresses, devotional works, treatises on practiafter leaving which he spent some time in cal subjects, tales, travels, children's songs and Germany, and finally completed his divinity stories, all bearing the impress of his warm studies at the University of Edinburgh, where heart and enthusiastic nature. he came under the influence of Dr. Chalmers, with whom he was a favourite student. In 1838, almost immediately after being licensed, he was ordained pastor in the parish of Loudon, Ayrshire. Here he continued for about five years, and when the secession of the Free Church from the Establishment took place in 1843 he received the charge of Dalkeith, near Edinburgh. It was while minister here that he first began to attract the notice of the Church and the public. About this time he became the editor of the Edinburgh Christian Magazine, which he conducted for ten years. In 1846 he was intrusted by the General Assembly with a mission to Canada on the affairs of the Church. In 1851 he was inducted into the Barony parish, Glasgow, one of the most influential charges in Scotland. From this time his fame as a preacher gradually increased, and his church was every Sunday filled to overflowing by crowds eager to hear him. In 1854 he published his first work of import-bytery of Glasgow had proposed to issue; but the ance, being the memorials of his friend John Macintosh, under the title The Earnest Student. | In October of that year he first preached before the Queen in the parish church of Crathie. Henceforth his life seems to have been one continuous series of labours. Not content with the arduous duties of his large and populous parish, which he performed with an efficiency and zeal that has been seldom equalled, he threw his whole soul also into the general work of the Church. In all her schemes of public usefulness, all her efforts to elevate and Christianize the masses at home or the heathen abroad, he ever took the warmest interest. Year after year he travelled through the coun- In 1858 Mr. Macleod received the honorary try, everywhere addressing meetings, and seek- degree of D.D. He was also appointed one of ing to infuse into others some of the enthusiasm | the Deans of the Chapel Royal, Holyrood, one suspicion of "heresy" on this point gradually died out. In 1867 he was commissioned by the General Assembly to visit the mission-field of the Church in India, and his "Peeps at the Far East," which also appeared in Good Words, are a memorial of this visit. From the shock which his system received from the fatigues of his eastern journey and the climate Dr. Macleod never quite recovered, and he died on June 16, 1872, aged sixty years. He sleeps in Campsie churchyard, near the glen where he watched as a boy the "squirrel in the old beech-tree," and learned from his brother James to "trust in God and do the right." a multitude weeping for a lost chief, in the second greatest city of the empire, when rich and poor of all creeds and opinions followed to his grave the great Scottish pastor, whose good deeds had so endeared him to all who knew him, and whose Good Words had reached thousands who had never seen his face, in of the Queen's Chaplains for Scotland, and Dean of the order of the Thistle. In May, 1869, was conferred upon him by acclamation the last honour which he lived to receive, that of being elected to the moderator's chair in the General Assembly, and never was honour more richly deserved or more hardly earned. An interesting memoir of the far-famed Scottish min-homes and lands far away, what was it that ister, from the pen of his brother, the Rev. Donald Macleod, D.D., appeared in 1876. In alluding to Dr. Macleod's death Dean Stanley said, in a sermon delivered in Westminster Abbey-"When ten days ago there went up the sound of great lamentation as of shed over the close of that career so peaceful, so cheering a light? It was that he was known to have fought the good fight manfully, that he had finished his course with joy, and had done what in him lay to add to the happiness and goodness of the world." DANCE, MY CHILDREN! Hurricanes of Highland reels! "Make the old barn shake with laughter, Till the storm without is dumb! "Sweep in circles like a whirlwind, Flit across like meteors glancing, Crack your fingers, shout in gladness, Think of nothing but of dancing!" Thus a gray-haired father speaketh, As he claps his hands and cheers; Yet his heart is quietly dreaming, And his eyes are dimmed with tears. Well he knows this world of sorrow, Well he knows this world of sin, Well he knows the race before them, What's to lose, and what's to win! But he hears a far-off music Guiding all the stately spheres- Let the road be long and dreary, Trust in God, and do the right." "Trust in God, and do the right." Some will hate thee, some will love thee, Simple rule, and safest guiding; Inward peace, and inward light; Star upon our path abiding: "Trust in God, and do the right." TRUST IN GOD. Courage, brother! do not stumble, "Trust in God, and do the right." CURLER'S SONG. A' nicht it was freezin', a' nicht I was sneezin', A fig for the sneezin', hurrah for the freezin'! Then get up, my auld leddy, the breakfast get ready, For the sun on the snawdrift's beginning to blink, Gi'e me bannocks or brochan, I am aff for the lochan, To mak' the stanes flee to the tee c' the rink! Chorus-Then hurrah for the curlin' frae Girvan to Stirlin'! Hurrah for the lads o' the besom and stane! "Ready noo!" " "soop it up!" "clap a guard!" "steady noo!" Oh! curlin' aboon every game stan's alane! The ice it is splendid, it canna be mendedLike a glass ye may glower on't and shave aff yer beard; And see hoo they gether, comin' ower the brown heather, The servant and master, the tenant and laird! There's brave Jamie Fairlie, he's there late and early, Better curlers than him or Tam Conn canna be. Wi' the lads frae Kilwinnin', they'll send the stanes spinnin' Wi' whirr an' a curr till they sit roun' the tee. Then hurrah, &c. It's an unco-like story that baith Whig and Tory And then, by my certes, ye'll see hoo a' parties WE ARE NOT THERE, BELOVED! A VOICE HEARD WHILE LOOKING AT THE GRAVES OF OUR HOUSEHOLD AT CAMPSIE. We are not there, beloved! So dry those tearful eyes, And lift them up in calmness To yonder cloudless skies; To yonder home of glory, Where we together live,'Tis all our Saviour died for, 'Tis all our God can give. Yet, in that home of glory, Midst all we hear and see, The past is not forgotten, And we ever think of thee- Of thee and all our dear ones, Be of good cheer, beloved! Wish only to act bravely In doing our Father's will, And where our Master puts thee, Be faithful and be still. Be still! for God is with thee, With the hosts around his throne. Be of good cheer, beloved! For not an hour is given That may not make thee fitter To join us all in heaven. What though no sin or sorrow Beyond that peaceful sky, Of our Saviour and our Lord, And know his living presence, And hear his living word. Him, dear one! trust and follow, And then we will remember, THE ANXIOUS MOTHER. Never did a kinder mother Nurse a child upon her knee; Yet I knew somehow or other That she always feared for me. When at school my teacher told her I was busy as a bee- She was pleased-yet feared for me. All the summer woods were ringing Was she whimsical, or fretted? That she always feared for me. Did she think I did not love her, But one morn, in anguish waking She said, in hers my small hand taking, And she told how but one other Branch grew from her household trce, And lest I, the best, should wither, That was why she feared for me! Then convulsively she snatched me; "For you told me I must walk, too, In the path my father trod, And that he, with none to talk to, On the ocean walked with God. "Often did you tell me, mother, That our father's God was nearThat his Saviour was my brotherTherefore I should never fear." "I'll walk," I said, "as did my father; Then, again, she hugged and kissed me, As she looked to Heaven, saying:- "Never more I'll fear for thee!" TEMPORA MUTANTUR. I. Tick! tick! tick! my heart is sick O cruel clock, Why dost thou mock My heart so sick, With thy tick, tick, tick? Go slowly! II. Tick-tick-tick-my heart is sick O cruel clock, Why dost thou mock My heart so sick, With thy tick-tick-tick! So slowly? SUNDAY IN THE HIGHLANDS. What holy calm is this! The mountains sleep, Wrapped in the sun-mist, through which heaven-born gleams Kiss their old foreheads till they smile in dreams Of early youth, when rising from the deep. Baptized by God, they shared man's sinless days:- But hark! From yonder glen the kirk-bell rings, Where lambs at play 'midst purple heather bleat, And larks make glad the air; while shepherds meet To worship Christ. Good Lord! Thy world now sings The hymn that louder yet shall fill the sky, A MOTHER'S FUNERAL. Ah! sune ye'll lay yer mither doon In her lanely bed and narrow; But, till ye're sleepin' by her side, Ye'll never meet her marrow! |