ur." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his
career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton
College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church,
and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed
to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the
_Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati,
he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835,
he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

AIR--_'Banks of the Devon.'_

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.

O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!

O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest,
How sweet to think o' thee.
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.

An' while the honey'd dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
An' when by stream or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.

When the sun's red rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
An' tardy-footed gloamin',
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.