And the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said, "Alas, that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man.

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding over his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low;
And he rose, at last, with a cheerful face
And a bright courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang, "Hurra for my handiwork!"

And the red sparks lit the air;

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashion'd the first plough-share.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship join'd their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough'd the willing lands;

And sang,

"Hurra for Tubal Cain,

Our staunch good friend is he;

And for the plough-share and the plough

To him our praise shall be;

But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough

We'll not forget the sword."

The Voice of the Time.

DAY unto day utters speech-
Be wise, oh ye nations, and hear
What yesterday telleth to-day,
What to-day to the morrow will preach.
A change cometh over our sphere,
And the old goeth down to decay.

A new light has dawned on the darkness of yore
And men shall be slaves and oppressors no more.

CHARLES MACKAY.

Hark to the throbbing of thought,
In the breast of the wakening world!
Over land, over sea, it hath come.
The serf that was yesterday bought,
To-day his defiance hath hurl'd;

No more in his slavery dumb;

And to-morrow will break from the fetters that bind,
And lift a bold arm for the rights of mankind.

Hark to the voice of the Time,

The multitude think for themselves,

And weigh their condition, each one;

The drudge hath a spirit sublime,

And whether he hammers or delves,

He reads when his labour is done;

And learns, though he groans under penury's ban,
That freedom to think is the birthright of man.

But yesterday, thought was confined;

To breathe it was peril or death,

And it sank in the breast where it rose;

Now, free as the midsummer wind,

It sports its adventurous breath,

And round the wide universe goes;

The mist and the cloud from its pathway are curled,
And glimpses of sunshine illumine the world.

The voice of opinion has grown ;
'Twas yesterday changeful and weak,
Like the voice of a boy ere his prime;

To-day it has taken the tone

Of an orator worthy to speak,

Who knows the demands of the time;

And to-morrow 'twill sound in oppression's cold ear
Like the trump of the seraph to startle our sphere.

Be wise, oh! ye rulers of earth,

And shut not your ears to the voice,
Nor allow it to warn you in vain ;

True freedom of yesterday's birth
Will march on its way and rejoice,
And never be conquered again.

The day has a tongue-aye, the hours utter speech-
Wise, wise will ye be, if ye learn what they teach,

213

HECTOR MACNEILL.

1746-1818.

BY THE REV. T. NEWTON, MA. LL.D. T.C.D.

VICAR OF BARNSTAPLE.

HECTOR MACNEILL was born on October 22nd, 1746, in the villa of Rose Bank, near Roslin, but went to reside near Loch Lomond, when but four or

five years of age. His father, who had become much reduced in circumstances, accepted the offer of an old friend, a West Indian trader, to provide for his son in life. The young boy commenced his career on board ship, but tiring of the sea, spent three years in Guadaloupe in the employ of a merchant. He afterwards went to Antigua and Grenada, at which latter place he became assistant to the Provost Marshal. He came to Britain after holding this office for three years, and his father and mother dying soon after, he once more embarked as a sailor, and encountered many perils and dangers. He always hated the sea and determined to settle in his native country and devote himself to literature. With this intention he fixed his residence at a farm house near Stirling, but found that his literary productions could find no market. He went to Jamaica after this, and one of his early friends who was there, settled £100 a year on him. He returned to Britain, took up his residence in Edinburgh, and began his literary work in real earnest. In 1801 he published an edition of his poems, in two duodecimo volumes. In 1809, he published "The Pastoral, or Lyric Muse of Scotland," and soon afterwards two other books. He was the author of several prose works, and a novel "The Scottish Adventurers," but it is as the author of some excellent songs that his name will continue to be remembered. On the 15th March, 1818, in his seventysecond year, this poet breathed his last, full of hope.

Extract from "The Waes o' 'War,"

OR THE UPSHOT O' THE HISTORY O' WILL AND JEAN.

PART IV.

SWEET as Rosebank's woods and river,
Cool when simmer's sunbeams dart,

Cam ilk word, and cooled the fever

That lang burned at Willie's heart.

HECTOR MACNEILL.

Silent stept he on, poor fallow!

Listening to his guide before,
O'er green know and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.

Laigh it was; yet sweet, though humble;
Deckt wi' hinnysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,

Deep glens murmuring back the sound.

Melville's towers, sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming, glint to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red and lift sae blue!

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mither fond, and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle

Bleising on a clean hearth-stane.

"Soldier, welcome! come! be cheerie-
Here ye'se rest, and tak your bed—
Faint, waes me! ye seem, and wearie;
Pale's your cheek sae lately red!"

Changed I am!" sighed Willie till her;
"Changed nae doubt, as changed can be;

Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o' Willie Gairlace see ?"

Hae ye markt the dews o' morning.
Glittering in the sunny ray,

Quickly fa', when, without warning,

Rough blasts came and shook the spray ?

Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing

Drap, when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean, wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet!

After three lang years' affliction
(A' their waes now hushed to rest)
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast;

Tells him a' her sad, sad sufferings !
How she wandered, starving, poor,
Gleaning pity's scanty offerings,

Wi' three bairns frae door to door!

215

SIR RICHARD MAITLAND.

BY GEORGE MACKENZIE, M.D. F.R.C.P.E.

AUTHOR OF "THE LIVES AND CHARACTERS OF THE MOST EMINENT

WRITERS OF THE SCOTS NATION.

SIR RICHARD MAITLAND, one of the Senators of the College of Justice, and grandfather of the first Earl of Lauderdale, was born in 1496. Having finished his course of study at the University of St. Andrews, he went to France where he studied the Laws, and on his return became a great favourite with King James V. He was admitted an ordinary Lord of the Session on the 12th November, 1561, and in 1563 he was made Lord Privy Seal, and one of the Lords of Her Majesty's Privy Council, in all of which honourable situations he continued till 1584. On his attaining to the dignity of Lord of the Session he adopted the title of Lord Lethington. It was about this time when Sir Richard first began to write verses. He died on April 1st, 1586, having for the last twenty years of his life been quite blind. As a poet, lawyer, and statesman, he is held in high respect and veneration, his blameless character and high talents made him universally beloved. He was a man of great learning, and well versed in the antiquities of his nation.