The smoke, like burning incense, tow'rs; Surmount the skies. Thus think, and smoke tobacco. LIVES. SIR ROBERT GRANT. O SAVIOUR, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair, I followed the rainbow; I caught at the toy, And still in displeasure, thy goodness was there, Disappointing the hope, and defeating the joy. The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below; The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam. Sweet whispered the breeze, but it whispered of woe; And bitterness flowed in the soft flowing stream. 1 The Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Grant, late governor of Bombay, was of one of the most ancient families of Scotland, and was a brother of the present Lord Glenelg. He died in 1838, and a collection of his "Sacred Poems" was published soon after in London. So, cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven Would be bright as the summer, and glad as the morn; Thou show'dst me the path; it was dark and uneven, All rugged with rocks, and all tangled with thorn. I dreamed of celestial reward and renown; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave; I asked for the palm-branch, the robe and the crown, I asked-and thou show'dst me a cross and a grave. Subdued and instructed, at length, to thy will, My hopes and my longings I fain would resign; O give me the heart that can wait and be still, Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe, But they stand in a region by mortals untrod; There are rivers of joy-but they roll not below; There is rest-but it dwells in the presence of God. 540 THE MARTYRS OF SCOTLAND. REV. H. BONAR THERE was gladness in Zion, her standard was flying, There is mourning in Zion, her standard is lying, Defiled in the dust, to the spoiler a prey; And now there is wailing, and sorrow prevailing, For the best of her children are weeded away. The good have been taken, their place is forsaken— The man and the maiden, the green and the gray; The voice of the weepers wails over the sleepers— The martyrs of Scotland that now are away. The hue of her waters is crimson'd with slaughters, And the blood of the martyrs has redden'd the clay; And dark desolation broods over the nation, For the faithful are perished, the good are away. On the mountains of heather they slumber together; On the wastes of the moorland their bodies decay: How sound is their sleeping, how safe is their keeping, Though far from their kindred they moulder away! Their blessing shall hover, their children to cover, HEAVEN. REV. H. BONAR. THAT clime is not like this dull clime of ou All, all is brightness there; A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers, And a far milder air. No calm below is like that calm above, No region here is like that realm of love; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brightest summer never shone so bright. That sky is not like this sad sky of ours, No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers No broken sunshine there! One everlasting stretch of azure pours Its stainless splendor o'er those sinless shores; For there Jehovah shines with Heavenly ray, There Jesus reigns dispensing endless day. These dwellers there are not like those of earth, No mortal stain they bear; And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth,— Whence and how came they there? Earth was their native soil; from sin and shame, Through tribulation they to glory came; Bond slaves delivered from sin's crushing load, Brands plucked from burning by the hand of God. These robes of theirs are not like those below: No angel's half so bright! Whence came that beauty, whence that living glow, Washed in the blood of the atoning Lamb, |