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And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb;

There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wand'rers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven ;
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way;

There's nothing calm but heaven!

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THE RAINBOW.
TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud pbilosophy

To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow ?
When science from creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no falling dreams,

But words of the Most High,

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For

Nor
T

Have told why first thy robé of beams

Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undelug'd earth

Heaven's cov'nnnt thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow lastre smild

O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,

To bless the bow of God.

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Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first made anthem rang On earth, deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,

Unraptur'd greet thy beam ;
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,

The lark thy welcome siugs,
When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields

The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious in thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathom's down. As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.

The ere
On Lou
On Pen
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For faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

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THE COVENANTERS' SABBATH.
'Twas Sabbath morn, a lovelier never rose,
And nature seem'd in holy calm repose;
No cloud was seen along the azure sky,
And the pure streamlet glided softly by;
From tree to tree the warbling minstrels sung,
And heav'n's bright arch with nature's praises rung:
Tho' all was stiil, yet persecution's rage,
With awful fury scourg'd a bleeding age :
Then Scotland groan'd beneath a tyrant's yoke,
Till her proud spirit seem'd for ever broke;
Her sons were haunted from the abodes of men,
To savage wilds, or some sequester'd glen :
Justice stood mute, for dæmons gave the law,
And many a bloody scene her mountains saw.

What tho' this morning rose so calmly bright,
The eye which saw it, trembled at its light;
On Loudon's braes the bird might find a nest;
On Pentland'st hills the wounded deer might rest ;
But terror there her gloomy watch did keep,
Like the death storm which overhangs the deep ;
And homeless man from place to place was driven,
Bereft of hope, and every stay but heaven.

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* Where the Covenanter's often met for worship. + The melancholy associations connected with Pentland, are too well known to require further notice; and for a fuli history of the sufferings

of the Church of Scotland under the tage of Popery and Prelacy, we would refer our readers the "Scots Worthies," and Woodrow's History.

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No gladsome bell announc'd the Sabbath day,
The solemn temples moulder'd with decay;
God's people met, amidst the lonely wild,
Like wretched outcasts from a world exil'd;
In a lone cave, the eagle's drear abode,
They met to worship, and to praise their God
The fretted rocks around their temple hung,
And echoed back the praises as they sung;

Tho' half supprest the thrilling accents rise,
To God who hears, and answers in the skies ;
The preacher rose, and ev'ry voice grew still,
Save echoing breezes round the lonely hill ;
With solemn awe he opes the blessed book,-
Earnest in voice, and heavenly in his look;
While from bis lips the soothing accents flow,
To cheer his flock, and mitigate their woe;
For who could tell how soon the sent'nel's breath
Might give the signal of approaching death;
For ev'ry moment seem'd to them the last,
And days to come, more gloomy than the past.

Within that place, the sacramental board
Was spread in memory of their risen Lord,
While the deep thunder rent the thick'ning cloud,
And light'ning flash'd along the mournful crowd;
And when with

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lowly hands the bread was broke,
The sheeted flame fell on the living rock;
Illum'd the table with its symbols spread,
As if heaven's brightness rested on their bead:
With placid looks they saw the dark’ning cloud,
Which hid Jehovah in his awful shroud;
And when the voice fell deafening on the ear;
No murm'ring word proclaim'd them men of fear,
But calm and sweet the heaven tun'd " Martyrs
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