twice every Sabbath without feeling any injurious effects. During his residence here he had many opportunities of ministering to the comfort and consolation of poor invalids who, like himself, had been forced to seek temporary relief from suffering in that warm and genial climate. He returned home next summer, but only to resign his much-loved charge at Dunblane - the state of his health not permitting him to continue in Scotland. He was appointed to the charge of the Presbyterian Church at Funchal, Madeira, and carried on his ministrations there, almost without interruption, for the next five years. Before returning to Britain in 1853, he made a tour through Spain and Italy, the records of which were expanded into a goodly-sized MS. volume, which, however, was not published. After a few months' ministration at Brighton and at Jersey, he accepted the call presented to him by the Presbyterian Church of Hampstead, near London.

In this quiet sphere he laboured for eight years, with much acceptance to a devoted flock. In 1864 his rapidly failing health compelled him once more to seek a milder climate, and he proceded to Mentone on the Mediterranean, where, after a short sojourn in Switzerland, he returned, but it was evident that he was dying. On the night of Sabbath, 27th Nov., 1864, he gently breathed his last.

Mr Burns seemed to live and breathe in an atmo

sphere of poetry. He looked with a true poet's heart and eye upon all nature. and none of his poems are more characteristic of his genius than those in which some beautiful aspect of nature is delineated.

In 1854 he published a volume of poems, "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems (Nisbet & Co.). He afterwards published two small volumes of meditations and devotional poetry entitled The Heavenly Jerusalem, or Glimpses within the Gate," and The Evening Hymn" (Nelson). Several of

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his hymns are also to be found among those in use in our churches, all breathing the deepest spirituality of thought and feeling.

THE DEATH OF A BELIEVER.

Acts xii.

The Apostle slept,-a light shone in the prison,—
An angel touched his side,

"Arise," he said, and quickly he hath risen,
His fettered arms untied.

The watchers saw no light at midnight gleaming,—
They heard no sound of feet;

The gates fly open, and the saint, still dreaming,
Stands free upon the street.

So when the Christian's eyelid droops and closes
In Nature's parting strife,

A friendly angel stands where he reposes

To wake him up to life.

He gives a gentle blow, and so releases
The spirit from its clay;

From sin's temptations, and from life's distresses,
He bids it come away.

It rises up, and from its darksome mansion
It takes its silent flight,

And feels its freedom in the large expansion
Of heavenly air and light.

Behind, it hears Time's iron gates close faintly,-
It is now far from them,

For it has reached the city of the saintly,

The New Jerusalem.

A voice is heard on earth of kinsfolk weeping

The loss of one they love;

But he is gone where the redeemed are keeping
A festival above.

The mourners throng the ways, and from the steeple
The funeral bell tolls slow;

But on the golden streets the holy people

Are passing to and fro ;

And saying as they meet, "Rejoice! another
Long waited for is come;

The Saviour's heart is glad; a younger brother
Hath reached the Father's home!"

HUMILITY.

O! learn that it is only by the lowly

The path of peace is trod :

If thou would'st keep thy garments white and holy,
Walk humbly with thy God.

The man with earthly wisdom high uplifted
Is in God's sight a fool;

But he in heavenly truth most deeply gifted,
Sits lowest in Christ's school.

The lowly spirit God hath consecrated

As his abiding rest;

And angels by some patriarch's tent have waited,
When kings had no such guest.

The dew that never wets the flinty mountain
Falls in the valleys free ;

Bright verdure fringes the small desert fountain,
But barren sand the sea.

Not in the stately oak the fragrance dwelleth,
Which charms the general wood;

But in the violet low, whose sweetness telleth
Its unseen neighbourhood.

The Censer, swung by the proud hand of merit,
Fumes with a fire abhorred;

But Faith's two mites, dropped covertly, inherit
A blessing from the Lord.

Round lowliness a gentle radiance hovers,
A sweet unconscious grace,

Which even in shrinking, evermore discovers
The brightness on its face.

Where God abides, contentment is and honour,
Such guerdon meekness knows;

His peace within her, and His smile upon her,
Her saintly way she goes,

Through the straight gate of life she passes stooping,
With sandals on her feet;

And pure-eyed graces, hand-in-hand, come trooping,
Their sister fair to greet.

The angels bind their eyes upon her goings,

And guard her from annoy:

Heaven fills her heart with silent overflowings

Of its perennial joy.

The Savious loves her, for she wears the vesture

With which He walked on earth;

And through her child-like glance, and step, and gesture, He knows her heavenly birth.

He now beholds this seal of glory graven

On all whom He redeems,

And in his own bright city, crystal-paven,

On every brow it gleams.

The white-robbed saints, the throne-steps singing under, Their state all meekly wear;

Their praise wells up from hidden springs of wonder That grace has brought them there.

THE BIRD AND THE BEE.

The Bird is your true Poet. I have seen him
When the snow wrapped his seeds, and not a crumb
Was in his larder, perch upon a branch,

And sing from his brave heart a song of trust
In Providence, who feeds him though he sows not,
Nor gathers into barns. Whate'er his fears
Or sorrows be, his spirit bears him up.
Cares ne'er o'ermaster him, for 'tis his wont
To stifle them with music. Out of sight
He buries them in the depth of his sweet song,
And gives them a melodious sepulture.

He teaches me philosophy,-yea, more,
He leads me up to Faith.

Your busy Bee

No favourite is of mine. There is no music
In that monotonous hum. To me it seems
A trumpet, which the little Pharisee

Sounds, that the common people of the field
May well regard his industry, and mark

How he improves the sunshine. Even the song
Dies with the flowers; for when the dreary days
Of winter come, he folds his wing to lie
In his luxurious halls, and there amidst
His magazines of daintiest food, and vaults
Brimming with luscious amber-coloured wine,
The spiritless sluggard dreams away his hours;
Or if he wake, 'tis but to gorge himself
In solitude with the rich cloying fare
Of an exclusive feast. His hospitality
No stranger ever shares. Heedless he sees
His mates of summer droop and starve before
His frozen gates. He revels deep within;
Without they die; yet the small misanthrope
Shall guard his treasures with a surly sting!

THE JARDIM DA SERRA,

MADEIRA.

(GARDEN OF THE MOUNTAIN.)

Sweet fold of the mountains! when first from the height,
I saw thy deep forests all flooded with light,
So bright and so sudden thy loveliness smiled
That it seemed by enchantment to bloom in the wild.

Thy clouds of soft umbrage lay witchingly fair
In the clear mellow depth of that crystalline air;
And through trees interlacing stretched many a glade,
Where the sunlight fell chequered by masses of shade.
From the rich flush of garden and woodland, the eye
Roamed up to blue ridges cut sharp in the sky,
And a brook flowed deep sunken through thickets of green
With a murmur that pensively blent with the scene.

I lingered till sunset bathed all in its glow,
And the soft stealing shadow crept up from below,
And a lone bird was warbling its latest farewell
As the star of the gloaming rose over the dell.

Fair valley! sleep on in the mountains' embrace,—
Thine image no time from the heart will efface;
For I hang the bright picture on Memory's wall,
And the sweet fleeting vision a wish can recall.

Yet not amid softness and peace such as thine,
Would I dream that true happiness e'er could be mine-
Not here could the choice on myself be bestowed,
Not on earth's fairest spot would I fix my abode.

The grace and the beauty which round him may smile,
The heart of the pilgrim may sometimes beguile,—
He may linger a moment, may say it is fair,
But it is not his home-his rest is not there!

E are indebted for the following particulars of the career of this poet to the "Memoir published in his "Lays of the Covenanters," edited by his cousin, the Rev. James Dodds, of Dunbar,