The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk Heard William's drowning scream!-SOUTHEY. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A chieftain to the Highlands bound "Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter : "And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather— "His horsemen hard behind us ride- Out spoke the hardy highland wight, "And, by my word, the bonny bird By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, "Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore His wrath was changed to wailing: For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, One lovely arm was stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh! my daughter!"— 'Twas vain!-the loud waves lash'd the shore, The waters wild went o'er his child- A SABBATH PICTURE. A really sanctified Sabbath throughout the world, would exhibit impressive proofs of the Divine benignity, and would present to the devout mind, even in its merely picturesque aspects, one of the most interesting spectacles that could be witnessed upon earth. Go forth at early morning, and climb the side of an upland peak, contiguous to some thicklypeopled city. Gaze eastward, southward, westward, and northward-through the whole circuit travelled by the sun and behold the delectable representation of Sabbath rest! Every sound breathes softer; every tint gleams brighter; every scene seems fresher. Cast thy glance across the country -pass from field to field, from rill to river, from alp to glen, from hill to valley, from grove to grove, from one cluster of human dwellings to another-and read in every softened feature of nature the sweet tranquillity of Sabbath rest! The flocks are wandering and gambolling in the dells; the cattle are grazing on the hill-sides; and the beasts of burden, freed from their yoke, are feeding on the open plains. The plough stands where it halted in its course across the furrows; but the husbandman is gone home to cultivate his soul. The sound of the axe has ceased from the forest, and the prostrate trees lie as they fell; but the woodman is gone away to ponder on the sudden death-stroke that may lay him low, or is on his way to the place where the keen axe of truth will be levelled at the roots of his stubborn sins. The mills are at rest on every hill-top; but their inmates have retired to their habitations, to garner up the corn of heaven. Few men are seen abroad; they are chiefly at home-by the domestic hearth, beside the family altar, teaching groups of children, watching at the couch of sickness, or smoothing the pillow, and pouring balmy speech into the ear of the dying. Again behold, and rejoice over, the glorious benefits of Sabbath rest! Turn next towards the great city, rearing its roofs, chimneys, steeples, monuments, and huge masses of masonry, in an atmosphere less murky and impure than that which broods over it on the other days of the week. The swarms of industry are now hived. The mingled hum of busy multitudes, the heavy tramp of traffic, the rush of enterprise, the clamour of human passions, the noise of innumerable tools and implements of handicraft, the fierce panting of engines, the ringing of anvils, and the furious racings of machinery; the shouts of crowds, the brawls of drunkenness, and the plaints of mendicant misery, are all sunk into silence, and disturb not with a ripple of agitation the still Sabbath air. The huge factories and workshops that girdle the city, and which are the fountains of its prosperity, are empty and dumb; and the swarms that carry on their earthly burrowings in those warrens of industry, are reposing themselves in the companionship of their families. The tall ships at anchor in the harbour have furled their sails, closed down their hatches, and hid from all eyes the merchandise treasured in their holds; whilst the Bethel-flag waves amidst a forest of masts, and they that go down to the sea, and do business on the great waters, are below, studying the chart of Revelation, tracing the dangers of their life's voyage, and anticipating the glad hour, when, redeemed from every peril, and borne on the bosom of a favouring tide, they shall safely moor their bark in the haven of Eternal Life. The black and dusty wharfs, usually the Babel-scenes of confusion, are cleared of their hordes of porters, and clerks, and captains, and loitering crews, who have cast off their burdens, along with their foul skins and rough garments, and are now lading themselves with the rich freightage of the Holy Word. The merchant has quitted the desk of his dusky counting-house, and is now, in secret places, turning over the blotted leaves of his own heart. The shopman has left his counter, the weaver his loom, the joiner his bench, the smith his forge, and the broker his stall; for the new Sabbath, in its advent, has published to all its tidings of liberty and rest. The gates of the temple of Mammon are shut; and the gods of gold and silver are forsaken by their week-day devotees. The chiming bells, sounding alike across country and town, are calling upon all men to cut the cords of their earth-bound thoughts and low cares, and go up to worship at the footstool of Jehovah. And the tapering spires, like holy fingers, are pointing significantly towards the sky. And now the minister is descending from his study, his countenance impressed with a solemn sense of his responsibility; the saint is coming forth refreshed from his closet; the pardoned penitent is rising from his knees; the evangelist is on his way to his mission work; the Sabbath-school teacher is pleading with his class; and the Christian matron is gently leading forth her children to the mountain of the Lord's house. At length, a new traffic fills the streets : a growing bustle stirs the air: a new scene expands before the eye. Religious assemblies are gathering the major part of the population. They come from the spacious squares and the crowded lanes: they are seen issuing alike from the lordly palace and the plebeian hut. Trooping together, are seen grey-haired sires and sprightly youth: the widow in her weeds, and the virgin in her teens: the father in hale manhood, and the mother in her charms: the lofty in their grandeur, and the lowly in their simplicity: the mighty in their pride and the feeble in their meekness: the healthy in their bloom, and the sickly in their paleness: the saint with his pleasant gravity, and the sinner with his indifference: the coxcomb in his daintiness, and the rustic in his rudeness. They pass along, not with the swiftfootedness of week-day enterprise, but with a measured step and gait, befitting the solemn associations of the day. Gradually their numbers are diminished, and ere long the throng has disappeared; whilst the silence of the streets is broken only by the footfall of some lonely passenger. They are gone to the places where the rich and poor meet together on terms of equality—where world-made distinctions are effaced-and where one common Father looks down, with impartial benignity and grace, on priest and people, on peer and pauper, on sovereign and slave. The bells grow dumb one by one, and the doors of the sanctuaries shut in their congregated worshippers. Organs are pealing through the lofty roofs of cathedrals, and along the aisles of churches: anthems are swelling from scores of unseen chapels: the glad outbursts of thanksgiving and the hallelujahs of the happy, are mingling in the air, and filling the clear vault of heaven with rich harmony. Then the holy breath of prayer goes up like fragrant incense, ascending to the sky. After which the manna of the Word is scattered round the camp, and the doctrines of grace are distilled like reviving dew upon the parched hearts of men. Prayer and praise again succeed; and then, convinced by some eloquent Apollos, or conscience-stricken by some vehement Paul, or comforted by some consoling Barnabas, or melted by some fervent John-the assemblies break up, and return, fervently ejaculating their gratitude for the priceless privileges of Sabbath rest! Alas! that the preceding sketch of Sabbath sanctification should seem so much like an ideal creation. Its observance in the most favoured spots of our world is but a remote approximation to its destined quietude and purity. The picture is every where blotted and blurred. Clouds of human depravity darken its divine beauty. The greed of covetousness has wrung from its hands some of its noblest blessings. While the natural impiety of man's heart, and the constraints |