Till the end of time the ocean
Shall thunder on the shore :
But the grand old Scottish Highlands
Is the Highlands nevermore!
The gloom of desolation wraps

The mountain and the vale,

And the wild hare brings forth her young

On the hearthstone of the Gael.

No more the clans shall grasp

the sword,

And don the White Cockade,
No more, sweet as her native heath,
Shall bloom the Highland maid;
No more the Gaelic blade shall rasp
Upon the Saxon spear;

And the age must come shall barter
A clansman for a deer,
And the laughing girl of Selma
Must beat her naked breast-
She must weeping find a home

'Mong the forests of the West,
That the dear spot where she was born
May be a coney's nest,
That the craven Sassenach weaver
May hunt upon the grave,

And desecrate the rugged shore

That heroes died to save!

No ray shall light our country's sky,
That God our wrongs may see;
Though Time has chains, Eternity
Has freedom for the free!

Down to Saxon shops and shuttles
Can ne'er descend our pride:

For us it yet remains to die

As our fathers still have died;
To seek, 'mid battle's tempest,
And the crash of sword and spear,
Six feet by three of gory earth,
For the Scottish Cavalier!

Though we bear our swords for bread,
Though on distant fields we die,
The God who gave us gallant hearts,
Shall watch o'er where we lie;
And the dauntless souls of earth recount
How, torn with shot and shell,

In the terror of death's hurricane
The Highland soldier fell!
How heroes from the Braes of Mar
And wild Breadalbane came,
And how the Athole tartan dash'd
Through withering walls of flame.
Some far-off cairn of stones shall mark
Where perish'd Grant, the brave,
And where the storm of cannon-shot
Dug leal MacDonald's grave;
Where Ross lay on his broken blade,
Exultant in his doom,

And down his bloody handful bore
Of laurels to the tomb;
And the battle-gutter reeking

In the grapple of the fray,

Where, 'neath a heap of foreign dead,
The red MacGregor lay!

May God help thee, Charlie Stewart!
Low is the White Cockade;

God protect our aged clansmen,

And the Highland wife and maid! God be with the brogue and sporran ! God be with the Highland blade! Our fortune's low-our hearts are highA ringing Highland cheer!— Six feet by three of gory earth, For the Scottish Cavalier

SACRED ELOQUENCE.

RELIGIOUS TOLERATION.

MINISTERS in general are turned such a timid, trimming, and conventional class, so much the slaves of the narrowest section of public opinion, that it is quite refreshing to find any boldness of language or originality of sentiment about them quite delightful to see even one of them on a division going out into the lobby in a small minority. Then I do like to see a man that is capable of stating out-of-the-way truth, even though in an exaggerated, extempore, and imprudent way, and of bearing the consequences and clamours which are sure to follow. I know something of these popular clamours, partly by observation, and partly by a little experience know how easily they are got up, how still more easily they are swelled into fury, how generally they turn on straws and points of stubble, how contemptible and shortlived they are, and how the brave and honest man, if he treat them as they deserve, is not injured, but bettered and strengthened by them. They spread his branches higher toward the sun, and they push his roots deeper into the soil. I rejoice in the plea put in for the distinction between the Jewish Sabbath and the Christian-days differing essentially (as I have preached for years) in time, in sanctions, in foundation, in spirit, and in mode of observance the one the seventh, the other the first day of

the week-the one beginning at six evening and extending to the same hour next day, the other from midnight to midnight-the one founded upon the Jewish account of the six days' creation of the world, the other upon the resurrection of Jesus Christ-the one sanctioned by dreadful pains and penalties, which have never been repealed, the other having no severe sanction at all-the one a day of austerity and gloom, and the other a day of gladness, worship, and rejoicing rest-the one the grub, the other the bright butterfly-the one the dark germ, the other the full ripe corn in the ear, But especially I rejoice in the assertion that has been made of Christian liberty, and the comment given on the words, "Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind." Let Sabbatarians keep their day to the very strictest letter of the old law, or of old use-and-wont observance-kindle no fires, ride in no cabs, patronise no railways, shut their windows, have cold meals, and never stir abroad except to church, I have no objections whatever. I will not even call them superstitious, whatever I may think, provided they allow me, and all with similar convictions, our liberty to go and do otherwise to obey the law of rest, not because that law is found in the Decalogue so much as because it is found, first of all, in the great archives of nature, and, secondly, has obtained a sanction from the usage of the apostles and of primitive times; and to obey it, not as a compulsory and austere enactment, but as a voluntary and delightful service. There is an attempt being made just now, both in England and Scotland, in other matters besides the Sabbath, to force down on Christians an absolute uniformity of opinion-an attempt as un-Protestant in spirit as it is impossible in effect-an attempt which is sure to lead to energetic and successful resistance, although it is prose