"THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH."

I walked amid the forest where
The autumn wind had past,
And blighted all its wealth of leaves,
They shivered in the blast;

And as I looked there came the thought
Of that Eternal Spring,
Which will not have one faded hue
To mar its hallowing!

I marked the beast of burden,
Yea, the brute of ev'ry kind,

And man opprest it, though he boasts
A soul and lofty mind;

Yea, to my ears it seemed as if

From earth's life-teeming sod,
One loud and bitter cry of woe
Arose to nature's God.

I looked to man, and lo! his life
Was one continued chain

Of strife and sorrow, care and grief,
And ah! how much of pain!
Exposed to troubles from without,
A prey to foes within,

The cause and consequence behold
In sin-accursed sin!

I watched the Christian and beheld,
That though his serious eye
Was often kindled up to joy

By sunbeams from on high,

Yet doubt would cloud his brightest hope,
And his repentant moan

Was far the saddest tone that swelled
Creation's choral groan.

But there were moments when his faith
Seemed merged in actual sight,
And he beheld that glorious time
Through dark Creation's night,

"AN CRUTHACHADH UILE AG OSNAICH."

Na claisean fliuch bha lionta suas
Le duilleach ruadh nan craobh,
A bha le gaoth an fhaoghair fhuair,
Iom-luaisgte air gach taobh;

An uair a dh'amhairc mi mu'n cuairt
Ghrad smuaintich mi le h-aoibh
Mu theachd an earraich shiorruidh, bhuain
'S nam blath bhios nuadh a choidhch!

Chunnaig mi 'n t-ainmhidh sàruicht', soirbh,
'S na brùidean balbh gu léir,
Bho'n duine 'fulang ainneart doirbh

Ged tha e 'n dealbh a Dhé;

Seadh, bha e dhomhs' mar aon chruaidh ghlaodh

Bho ghnùis an t-saoghail mu 'n cuairt, Bha 'g éiridh suas ri Dia, a thaobh

Am péin 's an daorsa chruaidh.

Chunnaig mi 'n duine 's bha e ghnàth
Gun fhois bho chràdh no caoidh,

'S an acain throm na uchd a bha
A dh'oidhch''s a là ga chlaoidh!
A mach bha uilc do-chunnt' fa sgaoil,
'S bha naimhdean baoth a steach;
Am pòr 's an toradh, taobh ri taobh,
Dh' fhàg glaodh a' bhròin 's gach teach!

A thaobh a' Chriosduidh ghabh mi beachd,
Ged chite fois 'na ghnùis,

'S le solus, mar 'o nèamh a' teachd,
Ged las gu tric a shùil;

Gidheadh a dhòchas shiùbhladh uaith',

'S cha robh aon fhuaim fo nèamh A leth cho mulaideach do m' chluais Ri osnaich chruaidh a chléibh.

Ach bheirt' am brat corr uair a thaobh
Tha 'n tràths' a' roinn nan sian,
'S an t-àm sin chitheadh e le h-aoibh
Troimh dhuibhre oidhche tiom,

When this lost world will be again
To perfect bliss restored,
And every creature hail with joy
The presence of its Lord!

But oh! to him the sweetest thought
Was that his sin would be
No more a burden, and his soul
From its defilement free;
That clouds of unbelief and doubt
Could never, never come

To hide his Saviour, and obscure
His title to his home.

Oh! happy hour, when all will be
In strong alliance bound,
The mighty chain of Christian love
About each spirit wound;

When renovated earth proclaims

Decay and Death are o'er,
And praise is glad Creation's voice-

Her groan is heard no more!

THE LAMENT OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.

The beauty of our land lies slain,

On wild Gilboa's side,

Our mighty ones are fallen,

In their valour and their pride:
Tell not in Gath nor Askelon
That they are lying low,

Lest fierce Philistia's mocking maids

Be joyous in our woe.

Ye mountains of Gilboa,

Be never more on you

The showers and promise of the spring,

Nor summer's gentle dew!

'N uair dh' aisigear gu sonas buan
An saoghal truagh so ris,

'S a bhios air maitheas Righ nan sluagh
Gu h-ait a' luaidh gach ni.

Ach so an smuain a thog a chridh',
Nach milleadh ni gu bràth

An t-saorsa gheibheadh e 's an t-sìth
O pheacadh gniomh a's càil;

'S

gu cian nan cian nach éireadh suas
Cùis rugha gruaidh, no neul

A dh' fholach gnùis Fhir-saoraidh uaith',
No 'chòir air suaimhneas nèimh.

Oh! àm an àigh 'n uair bhios gach treubh
Mar aon fo nèamh gu léir,

Gach sluagh is cinneach a toirt gràidh
Do Dhia 's do chàch a chéil';

An uair a dh'éigheas fonn a's cuan
Gu 'n d' sgriosadh uaigh a's bàs,
A's tuilleadh acain, péin no truaigh,
Nach bris air cluais gu bràth.

CUMHA DHAIBHIDH AIR SON SHAUIL AGUS IONATAIN.

Tha mais' an t-sluaigh air beannntaibh garbh
Ghilboa sinnt' gun treòir;

Oir thuit ar gaisgich chumhachdach

'An àird' an tréin''s an glòir:

Na cluinnte 'n Gat no'n Ascelon
Gur h-ìosal cinn nan sonn,
Mu'n dean na h-òighean Philisteach
'N ar bròn-ne uaill le fonn.

A shléibhtean àrd Ghilboa
Na sileadh oirbh gu bràth

'S an earrach frasan gealltannach,

No drùchd 's an t-samhradh bhlàth!

For on your steeps the royal shield
Was vilely cast away,

And dead amongst the countless slain,
The anointed monarch lay.

Foremost in fight the matchless bow,
Of Jonathan was bent,

Foremost in fight the fiery sword,
Of Saul destroying went;
Like eagles swift, like lions strong,
Their lovely lives were one,
And now, unparted in the grave,
They slumber, sire and son.

Daughters of Israel, weep for them,
Whose valiant hearts are cold,
Who gave the scarlet robes ye wear,
And wreathed your locks with gold!
O Jonathan! full sore I weep,
For thee, sweet brother mine,
For passing woman's love to me,
Was that dear love of thine.

How are the mighty fallen,
On high Gilboa's side,
In the thickest of the battle,

In their glory and their pride!
How are the mighty fallen,

On the red accursed field,

With bow and blade beside them laid,

And broken spear and shield.

THE TRUE HERO.

He who would win a warrior's fame,
Must shun, with ever watchful aim,
Entangling things of life;

His couch the earth-heaven's arching dome
His airy tent,his only home

The field of martial strife.