And his locks sae thin and gray;
And my hand grows red with the holy blude
I shed that bitter day!

O were I but a water drop
To melt into the sea--
But never water yet came down
Could wash that blude from me!

And O! to dream of that dear heaven
That I had hoped to win--
And the heavy gates o' the burning gowd
That will not let me in!

I hear the psalm that's sung in heaven,
When the morning breaks sae fair,
And my soul is sick wi' the melodie
Of the angels quiring there.

I feel the breath of God's ain flowers
From out that happy land,
But the fairest flower o' Paradise
Would wither in my hand.

And aye before me gapes a pit
Far deeper than the sea,
And waefn' sounds rise up below,
And deid men call on me.

O that I never had been born,
And ne'er the light had seen!
Dear God--to look on yonder gates
And this dark gulf between!

O that a wee wee bird wad come
Though 'twere but ance a-year!
And bring but sae much mool and earth
As its sma' feet could bear,

And drap it in the ugsome hole
That lies 'twixt heaven and me,
I yet might hope, ere the warld were dune,
My soul might saved be!

W. E. A.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] LAWSON'S _History of the Episcopal Church of Scotland_.

A NOVEMBER MORNING'S REVERIE.

BY DELTA.

Hast thou a chamber in the utter West,
A cave of shelter from the glare of day,
Oh radiant Star of Morning! whose pure eye,
Like an archangel's, over the dim Earth,
With such ineffable effulgence shines?
Emblem of Sanctity and Peace art thou!
Thou leavest man, what time to daily toil
His steps are bent--what time the bustling world
Usurps his thought; and, through the sunny hours,
Unseen, forgot, art like the things that were;
But Twilight weeps for joy at thy return,
With brighter blaze the faggots on the hearth
Sparkle, and home records its happiest hour!

Hark! 'tis the Robin's shrill yet mellow pipe,
That in the voiceless calm of the young morn,
Commingles with my dreams:--lo! as I draw
Aside the curtains of my couch, he sits,
Deep over-bower'd by broad geranium leaves,
(Leaves trembling 'neath the touch of sere decay,)
Upon the dewy window-sill, and perks
His restless black eye here and there, in search