VI.

‘ARE you that same Mary DYER,

With blasphemous breath, Whom our erring mercy saving

From the gulf beneath,
Banished from the jurisdiction

Under pain of death ?'
Calm and steadfast then she answered:

"Truly I am she,
Whom your General Court appointed

To the gallows-tree,
Where ye sent our faithful martyrs

When ye banished me.
Lo! I come again to bid ye

Set God's servants free!
By the council that condemned you

You were fairly tried ;
And we reaffirm the sentence,'

ENDICOTT replied:
'In the prison until morning

Safely you abide;
Then, be hanged upon the gallows

Where your brethren died.
· Look not for a second respite —

Hope for aid from none;
Fixed the awful fate that waits you

With to-morrow's sun.'
*Then,' replied she, slow and solemn,

'Let God's will be done; To the power that kills the body

He hath bid us yield;
Weapons of a carnal warfare

Are not ours to wield;
He will clothe us in His armor -

Guard us with His shield.'

In their light the mists and shadows

From the future roll.
Lol I see a power arising

Ye shall not control;
E'en the LORD of Hosts, in mercy,

Seeking all your land;
Judge and ruler, priest and people,

In His presence stand;
And your boasted power He holdeth

In His mighty hand.
Cease your cruel persecutions

Ere these days expire,
And He cometh in His judgments

With consuming fire,
As of old He came to Edom,

To Sidon and to Tyre,
And ye reap a bloody harvest,

Reap as ye have sown,
And the lofty spires ye builded

Reel and thunder down,
And the wo of desolation

Fills your ruined town;
In deserted habitations

Only DEATH may dwell,
When God leaveth no one living

Of His wrath to tell.
Cease, oh! cease your persecutions -

All may yet be well.'
So she ended. Awe and silence

O'er the council fell.

IX.

‘And did God,' asked little Mary,

‘All the town destroy?' "Wait and hear the story ended,'

Said the elder boy: *If they ceased their persecutions,

God would not destroy.'

VII.
Then she seemed to rise in stature,

MORNING O'er the Pilgrim city
And her look was high;

Breaking still and sweet,
And there was a light of glory

Heard the deep and mingled murmur Beaming from her eye,

Of the hurrying feet,
As she were by angel-presence

And the voices of the people
Touched to prophesy.

Thronging to the street;
Startled by the transformation

From afar the

heavy rolling Sate the rulers proud;

Of the muffled drum, Wondering at her awful beauty

With the measured tread of soldiers Gazed the vulgar crowd;

And the general hum,
While her words went through the still- Warned the captive in the prison

That the hour had come.
nese,
Ringing clear and loud.

All her simple garb arranging

With a decent care,
Knelt she in a holy silence,

Lost in secret prayer,
Now I feel prophetic visions

While her radiant face attested
Filling all my soul:

God was with her there.
VOL. XLII.

40

VIII.

EXTRACTS FROM A TRAVELLER'S NOTE-BOOK.

BY

WILIIAM W.

CAMPBELL.

IONA AND STA

STAFF A.

It was a dismal, rainy day when we dropped our anchor near Iona. Wet and weary, I first set foot on the sands of this famous island. The Christian pilgrim, wandering over the plains of ancient Judea, standing for the first time in the streets of the modern Jerusalem, can hardly realize that he is upon the spot which has been rendered memorable by the life and the death of the Son of God. Disappointment may come at first; but as he reflects, amid the sacred places which our Saviour frequented while on earth, imagination more easily cements the present with the past history of our race and the world; and then kindles up, as the thought steals on, that the hoary hills which stand around the sacred city have been witnesses of events which not only connect the present with the past, but which link all the present and all the past with the great, unbounded, and never-ending future. The traveller, also, who feels sympathy with the advance of Christian learning, truth, and civilization, can hardly fail to have his sensibilities awakened as he visits cities and islands which were frequented by the early followers of the Cross. Iona is a sacred spot. As we approached it, there was some feeling of disappointment. True, in my own experience, were the lines of Wordsworth:

But busy memory called up the celebrated passage in Dr. Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides :

We were now trending that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.'

This little island, only three miles long by one in breadth — a mere dot in the ocean – looking out on the rugged rocks of Mull, and buffeted by stormy waves — has yet borne no inconsiderable part in the spread of Christianity in Western Europe. Its history is one of great interest. About the year 372, there was born on the banks of the Clyde, not far from Glasgow in Scotland, a child whose surname was Succat. This was the future St. Patrick. His life was eventful. When a mere youth, he was stolen from his home and carried a slave to Ireland; and was engaged in the humble occupation of a swine-herd. Restored afterward to his family, but having, during his captivity, while reflecting on the pious teachings of his mother, become a freeman indeed — a .freeman whom the truth makes free' - be resolved to return to Ireland, and preach there the gospel of Christ. In his subsequent career in the Emerald Isle, he was eminently successful; and, living in a rude and superstitious age, truth and fable have sometimes united in the history of his deeds. Whether he destroyed the serpents and all venomous reptiles, and chased out of Ireland the great Arch-Enemy of Man; hurling after him, as he fled toward Scotland, the two great rocks which lie in the Clyde - one, on which rests the castle of Dumbarton, and the other, the vast rock of Ailsie- it is not necessary to inquire. At all events, there must have been some commotion in the air and in the water by their removal; and sufficient, one would think, to frighten even his Satanic Majesty.

However this may be, a follower of St. Patrick reflected and considered that there was a debt due to Scotland; not because the great traitor had been driven over there, but rather for the reason that it was the birthplace of the great Christian teacher. Shall he not repay to the country of Succat what Succat had imported to his ?' 'I will go,' said he, and preach the word of God in Scotland.

This was Columba, a descendant of an Irish monarch. It was nearly two centuries after the time of St. Patrick, that Columba resolved to pay the debt. In the year 565, he and a few followers landed upon the island afterward known as Iona, or the Island of Columba's cell.' Here he proclaimed that the Holy Scriptures were the only rule of faith. Here the schools of the Church were established. Here the missionary fire was kindled, and this little spot became literally the 'luminary of the Caledonian regions. Here, under various tides of fortune, and with different success, the gospel was preached for more than a thousand years. But her glory has departed. The ruins are there — the walls and tower of the old cathedral, the remains of a nunnery, and a chapel — but the

missionary-fire has gone out lang syne. As we moved about, we could but feel the solemnity of the place; for we were treading on the dust of monarchs, noblemen, and yeomen, as well as on that of the priest and the peasant; for, by its sacred character, it became the burial-place of many of the families of Scotland.

Leaving Iona, we bore away for the Cave of Fingal and the Island of Staffa :

MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark
On a breeze from the northward free:
So shoots through the morning-sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer-sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay;
And all the group of islets gay
That guard famed Staffa round:
There all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In serried tones, prolonged and high,
That mock the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane;
That Nature's voice might seem to say:
*Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high and hard -- but witness mine!''

Ahout nine miles to the north of Iona, and eight miles from the western coast of Mull, rises the famed isle of Staffa. Of irregular shape, and only three quarters of a mile in length by half a mile in width, it forms but a mere speck in the vast Atlantic. It is one immense rock; on the top a green pasture spreads out, supported by vast basaltic columns. A few cattle were grazing quietly here, but there is no human habitation upon the island; and, save when startled by the visitor, the cormorant might still find

“Dark and undisturbed repose.' On the southerly side, the rocks rise to the height of nearly one hundred and fifty feet. The pillars extend along in a continuous colonnade, and looking down from the summit on the dashing waves below, the scene is wild and impressive. There are several caves; but that which bears the name of the father of Ossian, the Cave of Fingal, is the crowning wonder of this wonderful island. 'A vast archway of nearly seventy feet in height, supporting a massive entablature of thirty feet additional, and receding for about two hundred and thirty feet inward; the entire front, as well as the great, cavernous sides, being composed of countless complicated ranges of gigantic columns, beautifully jointed, and of most