what signifies the madness that inspires?
The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.

JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.

The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia,
was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on
ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer,
and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close
of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th
year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His
general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his
receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of
Glasgow.

LIGHT IN THE HIGHLANDS.[18]

Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,
Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,
Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;
But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.

Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,
Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;
Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,
To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.
Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale
Will mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.

* * * * *

Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,
As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;
Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,
And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.
No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud--
No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.

O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,
When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,
In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;
Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,
That sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain
To welcome its return to love and innoce