I hear! I hear! the chariot-wheels that bring my Saviour

nigh;

For me He bears a golden crown,-a harp of melody;

For me He opens wide His arms,-He shews His wounded side;

Lord! 'tis my passport into life! I live, for thou hast died!"

They give his writings to the flames, they brand his grave with shame;

A hissing in the mouth of fools becomes his honoured name,And darkness wraps awhile the land for which he prayed and

strove,

But blessed in the Lord his death,- and blest his rest above.

HISLOP.

PEDEN AT THE GRAVE OF CAMERON.

"To this spot did Peden, one of Cameron's dearest friends, repair: harassed and vexed with personal sufferings, he sat down by the grave, and, meekly raising his eyes to heaven, prayed-' O to be wi' Richie !'"'

A SOUND of conflict on the moss! but that hath passed away, And through a stormy noon and eve the dead unburied lay; But when the sun a second time his fitful splendours gave, One short ray rested, like a hope, on Cameron's new-made

grave.

There had been watchers in the night! strange watchers, gaunt

and grim,

And wearily, with faint, lean hands, they toiled a grave for

him ;

But ere they laid the headless limbs unto their mangled rest, As orphan'd children sat they down, and wept upon his breast.

Oh! dreary, dreary, was the lot of Scotland's true ones thenA famine-stricken remnant, wearing scarce the guise of men; They burrowed few and lonely 'mid the chill, dank mountain

caves,

For those who once had sheltered them were in their martyrgraves.

A sword had rested on the land! it did not pass away; Long had they watched and waited, but there dawned no brighter day!

And many had gone back from them who owned the truth of

old;

Because of much iniquity their love was waxen cold.

There came a worn and weary man to Cameron's place of rest, He cast him down upon the sod-he snote upon his breastHe wept, as only strong men weep, when weep they must or die,

And "O to be wi' thee, Richie!" was still his bitter cry.

"My brother! O my brother! thou hast passed before thy time, And thy blood it cries for vengeance, from this purple land of

crime.

Who now shall break the bread of life unto the faithful band? Who now upraise the standard that is shattered in their hand?

Alas! alas for Scotland! the once beloved of Heaven!
The crown is fallen from her head, her holy garment riven !
The ashes of her Covenant are scattered far and near,
And the voice speaks loud in judgment which in love she
would not hear!

Alas! alas for Scotland! for her mighty ones are gone;
Thou, brother, thou art taken-I am left almost alone;

And my heart is faint within me, and my strength is dried and lost

A feeble and an aged man alone against a host!

Oh, pleasant was it, Richie, when we two could counsel take
And strengthen one another to be valiant for His sake;
Now seems it as the sap were dried from the old blasted tree,
And the homeless and the friendless would fain lie down with

thee!

It was an hour of weakness, as the old man bowed his head, And a bitter anguish rent him as he communed with the dead! It was an hour of conflict, and he groaned beneath the rod, But the burthen rolled from off him as he communed with his

God.

My Father! O my Father! shall I pray the Tishbite's prayer? And weary in the wilderness while thou wouldst keep me

there?

And shall I fear the coward fear, of standing all alone,
To testify for Zion's King, and the glory of His throne?

O Jesus! blessed Jesus! I am poor, and frail, and weak;
Let me not utter of mine own, for idle words I speak!
But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering
tongue,

And breathe thy Name into my soul, and so I shall be strong!

I bless thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now;
I bless thee for his blessedness, and for his crowned brow;
For every weary step he trod in following after thee,

And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly!

I bless thee for the hidden ones who yet uphold thy name, Who yet for Zion's King and Crown shall dare the death of

shame;

I bless thee for the light that dawns even now upon my soul,
And brightens all the narrow way with glory from the goal!

The hour and power of darkness it is fleeting fast away-
Light shall arise in Scotland-a glorious Gospel day!
Woe! woe to the opposers! they shall shrivel in His hand;
Thy King shall yet return to thee, thou covenanted land!

I see a time of respite,- but the people will not bow;
I see a time of judgment-even a darker time than now!
Then, Lord, uphold thy faithful ones, as now thou dost uphold!
And feed them, as thou hast fed thy chosen flock of old.

The glory! O the glory! it is bursting on my sight;

Lord! thy poor vessel is too frail for all this blinding light! Now let thy good word be fulfilled, and let thy kingdom come, And, Lord, even in thine own best time, take thy poor servant home!"

Upon the wild and lone Airsmoss down sank the twilight

grey

In storm and cloud the evening closed upon that cheerless day; But Peden went his way refreshed, for peace and joy were

given,

And Cameron's grave had proved to him the very gate of

heaven!

HISLOP.

THE DREAM.

Richard Cameron fell at the skirmish at Airsmoss, on the 22d of July, 1680. Bruce of Earlshall, with a company of troopers, surprised him and his party in the moss. A conflict speedily ensued, before the commencement of which Cameron several times uttered this emphatic prayer,-" Lord, spare the green, and take the ripe!" Nine of the Covenanters fell, among whom were Richard Cameron and his brother Michael: they were all buried in the moss.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away

To the Muirlands of mist, where the blest martyrs lay;
There Cameron's sword and Bible are seen,

Engraved on the stone, where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
When the ministers' homes were the mountains and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying:
It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east
Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew
Glistened sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers
blue;

And far up in heaven, in the clear shining cloud,

The song of the lark was melodious and loud:

And in Glenmuir's dark solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and the bleating of sheep;
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed nothing but gladness;
The first mea low blooms hung in beauty and redness;