We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain ;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die.

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melt upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

'Twas night, the waves were rolling black beneath the gloom of heaven,
Where fast o'erhead the floating wrack by the loud wind was driven;
On every rock and distant creek fierce raged the whitening spray,
While one stray boat is like a speck tossed by the waves away.

The seamen's strength was well nigh spent, nor yet their port they knew,
For not a star its lustre lent unto the toiling crew:

Out then and spake a mariner-a hardy man was he,

Who 'd faced full many a wintry year the storm upon the sea.

"My trust is yet in Him who sent about my mates and me This strong and fearful element that rageth on the sea: My trust doth in His mercy lie who knows to guide our way, And lead us up to heaven on high, or be on earth our stay." In darkness, shining as he spoke far glanced a lonely beamFrom where the wave in thunder broke, bright spread its guiding gleam: 'Twas there his little daughter raised the star-like beacon light, Above his humble home that blazed, and cheered the howling night. 'Twas there she tended it with care amid the darkness wild,

And lighted in her heart the prayer that cheered the fisher's child: 'Twas there she guarded well the flame against the wind and spray, Until her storm-tossed father came and kissed her fears away.

*The original of these verses was composed many years ago by the Rev John M'Leod, D.D., Minister of Morven. The English is by no means a close translation. The following note was prefixed to them when they first appeared in the "Gælic Messenger."

"Tha Eilean Thiridhe cho ìosal, chòmhnard 's nach 'eil e furasd' a thogail 's an oidhche leis na maraichean a tha 'g iarraidh g'a

Tha 'm brâthair glé mhùirneach mu 'phiuthar a's caomh—
Am fear-pòsda mu'n mhnaoi do'n tug e a ghaol-
Tha 'mhàthair ro ghaolach mu aon mhac a gràidh;
Gràdh bràthar, no mathar, cha saor sinn o'n bhàs!

O! 's nămhaid gun tioma, gun tròcair am Bàs-
Tha 'imeachd 'measg fola, 'us truaighe gach là-
Cha chuir deòir, 's cha chuir osna aon stad air a cheum;
Rinn e 'n saoghal so uile ro dhubhach-lån dheur !

Ach moladh a's cliù do ghaisgeach an àigh;

'Thug buaidh air an uaigh-'thug an gath as a' bhàs : 'S a choisinn do dhaoine sìor-bheatha lăn glòir,

'S nach bi tinneas, no doilgheas, no àmhghar, no bròn.

'Iosa, Mhic Dhé! 's tu aoibhneas mo shùl!

Rid' ghràdh, a's ri d' chòmhnadh do ghnàth bi’dh mo dhùil : ! saor mi o'n pheacadh 'thug neart do an Bhàs,

Làn-naomh dean mo thaisbein' 'n làthair Athair nan gràs.

IUL AN EILEANAICH.

Bha ghrian 'si air luidhe fo smal a's fo ghruaim,
Agus cuantan a' beuchdaich le gàirich nan stuadh;
Ach tha'n t-eithear gu treun ris a' ghaillinn a' strìth-
Ag iarraidh gun luasgan gu cala na sìth.

Bha dubh-neoil nan doinionn a' siubhal nan speur,
A's fearann no fasgadh do'n sgiobadh cha leur ;
Ach gun mheatachd, gun imcheist air cridhe nan sonn,
Shìor ghleidh iad an gabhail air Eilean nan tonn.

Deir am maraiche aosda a shuidh air an ailm,

Na strìochdadh mo ghillean fo uabhar na stoirm! Biodh 'ur n-earbsa gu daingean 'an àrd Righ nan dùl, Oir dheònaich a mhaitheas na bheir soills' agus iùl." Agus feuch! mar a labhair, air carraig nan stuadh, Suas dh'éirich le 'dhearsadh àrd lòchran nam buadh ; 'S an deur nach do dh'fhàisgeadh le gåbhadh o'shùil, Shil an t-athair 'nuair thuirt e, "Leanabh mo rùin!" 'S bha 'leanabh cho sona 's bu mhiannach le 'chrì 'N uair a chunnaic i 'n t-eithear an cala na sìth; 'SO! b' aoibhneach a choinneamh 'n uair rainig e 'n tràigh, 'S a thuirt i le aiteas,-"O! athair mo ghràidh!”

ionnsuidh. Tha e 'na chleachdadh cumanta, uime sin, aig muinntir an eilein, 'n uair a tha càirdean a mach air a' chuan agus dùil riutha, teine 'lasadh air àit' àraid air an dean am maraich' a ghabhail. 'Siomad bàta agus sgiobadh a thearnadh leis a' chleachdadh chàirdeil, bhàigheil so. 'Se fhaireachadh so a thug air ar caraid an Dàn a leanas a sgriobhadh."

ZION COMFORTED.

O Zion! afflicted with wave upon wave,
Whom no man can comfort, whom no man can save;
With darkness surrounded, by terrors dismayed,
In toiling and rowing thy strength is decayed.

Loud roaring, the billows would thee overwhelm,
But skilful's the Pilot that sits at the helm ;
His wisdom, his power, and his faithfulness stand
Engaged to conduct thee in safety to land.
"O fearful! and faithless (in mercy He cries)
My promise, my truth are they slight in thine
Still, still I am with thee, and faithful to keep,
Though seeming amid the rough tempest to sleep.

"Forget thee! I will not, I cannot forget
What Calvary witnessed to cancel thy debt ;
On the palms of my hands while looking I see
The wounds I received in suffering for thee.

eyes

?

"I feel at my heart all thy sighs and thy groans,
For thou art akin to my flesh and my bones;
In all thy distresses thy head feels the pain,
Yet all is most needful, not one is in vain.”
O Saviour! we trust thee our life to secure,
Thy wisdom is perfect, supreme is thy power;
In love thou correctest, our souls to refine,
To make us at length in thy likeness to shine.
The foolish, the fearful, the weak are thy care,
The helpless, the hopeless, thou hearest their prayer;
From all our afflictions thy glory shall spring,
The deeper our sorrows the louder we'll sing.

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

The golden shades of evening rest
Upon Tiberias' glassy breast;

No rippling waves disturb the sea,

For all is bright serenity.

But soon the sky is overcast,

Dark threatening clouds drive swiftly past;

The wind is up-the billows roar,

And wreak their fury on the shore.

COMHFHURTACHD DO SHION.

Oigh Shioin! fo àmhghar, fo ànradh, 's fo bhròn,
'S gun neach ann bheir tearnadh o d' ghabhadh a'd' chòir ;
Air do chuartach' le trioblaid, 's le deuchainnean geur,
Ann an gleachd 's ann an cràdh gu'n d' fhàilnich thu féin.

Tha na tonnan a' beucaich, 's a' bagairt bhi garbh,
Ach 's eòlach an Sgiobair a shuidh air an ailm;
Tha 'ghliocas, 's a chumhachd, 'sa dhillseachd gu sìor
A' gealltuinn gu'n toir e thu tearuint' gu tìr.

"Na bi'-sa fo eagal, (tha Iosa ag ràdh,)

Mo ghealladh tha seasmhach, 's cha'n fhâilnich gu bràch ;
A ghnàth tha mi 'd' chuideachd gu d' chumail a suas,
Ged a shaoil thu gu'm bheil mi gun suim dhiot no truas.

"Cha dì-chui'nich mi thusa, cha'n urrainn gu bràch
Mi dhearmad na dh'fhuiling air a' chrann air do sgàth;
Air dearnaibh mo làmh 'n uair a sheallas mi chì
Na lotan a fhuair air do shon anns an strì.

Mo chridhe tha cràiteach mu d' àmhghar, 's mu d' leòn,
Oir thusa tha 'n càirdeas do m' chnàmhan, 's do m' fheòil;
Anns gach trioblaid a thig ort gu'm fairich mi péin,
Ach tha iad gu buannachd a's feumail duit féin."

Ar beatha, a Shlàn'ir, tha tearuint' fo d' sgàil,
A'd' ghliocas, 's a'd' chumhachd gu'n earb sinn gu bràch;
Ann an gràdh bheir thu oilean, gu ar miannan a chlaoidh,
Chum fa dheòidh ann a'd' choltas gu'm bi sinn a chaoidh.
Am baoth, a's an gealtach gheibh tearmunn fo d' sgàil,
'S gheibh an neach tha gun dòchas a's anmhunn uait bàigh;
O ar trioblaid's o'r dòlas gu'm faigh thusa glòir,
Oir o dhoimhne ar dòrainn gu'n tog sinn duit ceòl.

CRIOSD A' CIUINEACHADH NA FAIRGE,

Bu tosdach an fhairge 'n uair a ràinig a' ghrian
Gu greadhnach a pàilinn, 'tha ghnàth anns an iar-
Bha gean agus aoibhneas air aogus gach nì,
A's oiteag na h-oidhche a' sìoladh gun chlì.

Bha ciar-bhrat an anamoich air sgaoileadh mu'n cuairt-
A' còmhdach nan garbhlach, nan gleann, a's nan cruach;
Ach's carach na sìonntan, 's is meallta a' ghaoth-
Mar shubhachais dhìomhain, 's mar shòlasan baoth.
Tha àilleachd na h-iarmailt air caochladh gu gruaim,
'S na neòil a bha ciallach, 'n an still 'ruith gu luath ;

Scared by the surge the sea-fowl fly
In wild confusion through the sky;
Upon the deep a vessel's form
Is seen amidst the thickening storme

Struggling, she rolls from side to side,
And bounds across the bursting tide;
The shredded canvas bends the mast,
Each moment seems the vessel's last!
Within that bark the storm defies,
The Son of God, incarnate lies;
Wrapt in the arms of sound repose,
Oblivion hides his earthly woes.

The billows foam and rage arround,
But still he rests in sleep profound;
At last a cry salutes his ear,
A cry of mingled hope and fear.

A

cry for help, at once 'tis heardSuch cries he ne'er can disregard; Calmly he rose and whispered Peace, Ye winds and raging billows cease."

The conscious elements obey,
And own at once their Maker's sway;
The tempest's voice is heard no more,
And soon the bark has reached the shore.

While joy and wonder fill each breast,
Which fear so lately had possessed;
Just so it is with those who tread,
In faith, life's path with sorrows spread.
When cherished hopes fade and decay,
Like frost-nipt flowers in early May;
And when affliction's billows roll
In swift succession o'er my soul,

When fears and doubts distract the mind,
No comfort can the Christian find;
He prays, God hears, and light is given,
Which shows the wise designs of Heaven.