Heart and Flesh are Failing," appeal to the holiest emotions, and have comforted many hearts in their life-pilgrimage.

The Rev. Thomas Dunlop was born at Kilmarnock in 1839. He studied at Edinburgh University, and was minister of the United Presbyterian Church, Balfron, Stirlingshire, for three or four years. For about the same space he acted as co-pastor with Dr Peddie, of Bristo Church, Edinburgh, and at present he is the minister of Emmanuel Congregational Church, Bootle, near Liverpool. Mr Dunlop is a man of high culture and many accomplishments, and his sermons give evidence of scholarship, literary culture, and a mind essentially of a poetic type. He has been a frequent contributor in prose and verse to various magazines and newspapers, and several of his productions have appeared in the Christian Leader (Glasgow), one of the best conducted and most successful of our weekly records of "religious thought and work." Amongst his longer poems of special merit we might mention "Little Nelly Nobody," "Ourisk's Awa," and "John Tamson's Bairns." These have on several occasions been printed separately, and are deservedly popular.

As a poet, his productions teem with beauty, gracefulness, and rich imagery. While the devout reader finds much that will correspond with the fondest aspirations of the heart, those of the nature of character-sketches and of a domestic turn show a keen appreciation of homely enjoyments, and a thorough knowledge of the "hamely Doric." They are so choice and perfect as to be worthy of a permanent place in poetic literature.

He was highly appreciated by the late Dr John Brown, and we quote the following verses from a beautiful and tender "In Memoriam," by Mr Dunlop, in the U.P. Magazine :—

Every bright day doth hasten to its ending,
And every blessing to its Source on high;
For a brief while upon our steps attending,
The wise men hurry on and pass us by.

We know not what the good are till they die,
Nor know the benediction God is sending,

Till the soul-slumber and the waking dream are o'er,
And we behold the servant's radiant face no more.

Brightest of all the goodly race before him, Of all his worthy sires most worthy he, Whom Genius loved, and cast her mantle o'er him, Whom from a child Faith nurtured on her knee. Pure Wisdom, Wit, and (richest of the three) Kind Humour, everywhere on earth deplore him— Gentle, devout John Brown, droll wizard of the pen, The son of mirth and tears, the friend of dogs and men !

He walked life's way like shadow softly stealing,
With the glad Muses ever hovering by,

Who could not help their secret things revealing
Whilst he, their loved interpreter, was nigh,
With mystic pen and seer's far-piercing eye;
Deep in his heart the subtle craft concealing
Of serving sacred Truth with Fancy's drollest wiles,
Melting the soul to tears, and turning these to smiles.

THE WEE BURN.

Bonnie wee bit wimplin' burnie,
Warstlin' thro' amang the stanes,
Whumlin' owre at ilka turnie,

Nane the waur for a' thy pains;
Like a' young things fu' o' daffin',
Loupin', rowin' doun the brae,-
Bouncin' brawly, greetin', laughin',
Changefu' like sae mony mae.

How my heart rins doun beside thee,
Brisk like thine, and fu' o' glee!
A' that ever may betide thee

Like a trusty freen' to pree,-
Whiles wi' ready tongue gib-gabbin',
Rantin' rowdily alang;

Whiles in secret slowly sabbin'
Sorrow's langsyne lanely sang.

Braes a' white wi' saintly gowan,
Lace o' bonnie birken tree,

Broom wi' yellow fire a' lowin',

Haud their charms for thee and me,

Linties wi' their rustic rhymin'
Lead thee doun the hawthorn dell,
Fairy-like the while are chimin'
Hyacinth and heather-bell.

Whaur the buttercup sae glossy

Keps the dew's fresh-fallen tears,—
Whaur on dreepin' banks and mossy
Grasses rise like swords and spears ;-
Whaur wee minnows, unco happy,
On thy sunny bosom shine,-
And the laverock drinks its drappie
O' the best o' heaven-brewn wine.

Ower the linn I see thee linkin'
Like an arrow frae the bow,-
Yonder sits an auld man thinkin',
On a whin stane doun below ;-
And a hare frae hunter fleein',

'Mang the bracken hirples thro',
Stains thee wi' its bluid, and deein',
For the last time weets its mou'.
Whan the slow wings o' the gloamin'
Spread their saftness roun' an' roun',
Up the glen twa lovers roamin'
Hear thy sang an' settle doun ;—
On a tree stump sit thegither-
He is strong, and she is fair;
O how fain wi' ane anither,—
And it may be nevermair!

Blythe wee burnie! auld creation
May nae aulder be than thou;
And the latest generation

Still may see thee on this knowe!
Mony queer auld-fashioned bodies,
Worshippin' the sun and mune,
Here hae met to wash their duddies,
Or to paint their freckled skin.

Mony Hielan' raids for thievin'
Back an' fore hae passed thee by;
Thou their mou's and cloots relievin
Puir wee lambs and muckle kye.
Aft the clans hae made thee muddy
Wi' their fechtin' micht an' main;
Aften ran thy waters ruddy

Wi' the life's bluid o' the slain !

Thou hast lang since left behind thee
Thae unhappy graceless days,

And in thankfu' peace we find thee

Bubblin' doun the same auld braes ;

Bairn o' some heath-covered fountain,
Nursling o' the cloud and breeze,
Fondled by the mist-clad mountain,
Dandled on its rocky knees!

See how sturdy now thou boundest
On by yonder mossy wheel,
Whaur wi' groanin' mill thou soundest
Like a very thunder-peal,-
While the miller's deft wee doggie
Rows upon the bank sae green,
And his wean wi' parritch coggie
Keps thy jaups, wi' glowerin' een.
On thou flow'st, for gentle, simple,
Close by mony a hoose an' ha',-
By the clachan inn dost wimple,
By the kirkyard's broken wa' ;-
On till in the silent river

(Death's cauld flood we a' maun feel)
Thy sweet sang is hushed forever,-
Blythe wee burnie, fare-thee-weel!

MAMMA'S APOSTROPHE TO BABY.

Ah! my blue-eyed baby-boy!
Tiny fount of tears and joy,
Whither art thou tending?

Whither go thy dainty feet?
Here thy heart began to beat-
Where will it be ending?

Oft my foolish heart will quake
Lest the world should thee forsake
Or forget to love thee;-
Peace, O peace! for this I know,
Still thou hast, where'er thou go,
God and heaven above thee!

Come, my ruby cup of wine!
Put thy pretty lips to mine,

Feast me with thy kisses!
Ne'er were they so sweet before;
Now I know, yea, know far more
What an angel's bliss is!

Sheltered from a thousand harms,
In the silk of thy soft arms

Sweetly, safely folden,

Better shielded then am I

Though ten legions from the sky

Round me were beholden!

Merry stars are in thine eyes,
Music in thy sorrow's cries,

Piercing me like lances,—

Agony all full of joy!
O my brightest baby-boy,

Kill me with thy glances !

Happy, happy little thing!

All a cherub save the wing,

What hast thou with sorrow?

Trusting God will ever be

Kind each day to thee and me,
Kinder each to-morrow!

I WILL NOT LET THEE GO.

Jesus, I cannot, will not let Thee go,
I love Thee so;

Far less Thy love will ever suffer Thee
To part with me.

I know Thou lovest me, but cannot tell
How long, how well;

And all the love that fills this heart of mine
Is drawn from Thine.

I feel no sorrow, and I fear no fear

When Thou art near;

And all my sinful feelings droop and die
Beneath Thine eye.

O let my weary head sink down to rest
Upon thy breast;

And let me drink in flowing words my fill
Of Thy sweet will.

Thou hast Thy dear self of the pain I bear
The largest share;

My sorest agony is very bliss

When I think of this.

When my weak spirit cannot rise in song,
O make me strong!

And when uneasy murmurings will not cease,
O whisper peace!

Upon Thy bosom leaning, let me there

Lose all my care;

And gazing on Thy glory let me be

Made like to Thee.

O love of Christ! that I can never know,
Nor yet let go;

With thee all sorrow from my life is driven,

And death is heaven!