The rest disperse, and Stolberg hastes
    Into the house again,
  And him throughout the long sweet night
    Her gentle arms enchain.

* * * * *

A FEARFUL PROSPECT.

(From the “Noctes” of Blackwood.)

Shepherd.—­I look to the mountains, Mr. North, and stern they staun’ in a glorious gloom, for the sun is strugglin’ wi’ a thunder-cloud, and facing him a faint but fast-brightenin’ rainbow.  The ancient spirit o’ Scotland comes on me frae the sky; and the sowl within me reswears in silence the oath o’ the Covenant.  There they are—­the Covenanters a’ gather’d thegither, no in fear and tremblin’, but wi’ Bibles in their bosoms, and swords by their sides, in a glen deep as the sea, and still as death, but for the soun’ o’ a stream and the cry o’ an eagle.  “Let us sing, to the praise and glory o’ God, the hundred psalm,” quoth a loud clear voice, though it be the voice o’ an auld man; and up to Heaven hands he his strang wither’d hauns, and in the gracious wunds o’ heaven are flying abroad his gray hairs’, or say rather, white as the silver or the snaw.

North.—­Oh, for Wilkie!

Shepherd.—­The eagle and the stream are silent, and the heavens and the earth are brocht close thegither by that triumphin’ psalm.  Ay, the clouds cease their sailing and lie still; the mountains bow their heads; and the crags, do they not seem to listen, as in that remote place the hour o’ the delighted day is filled with a holy hymn to the Lord God o’ Israel!

North.—­My dear Shepherd!

Shepherd.—­Oh! if there should be sittin’ there—­even in that congregation on which, like God’s own eye, looketh down the meridian sun, now shinin’ in the blue region—­an Apostate!

North.—­The thought is terrible.

Shepherd.—­But na, na, na!  See that bonny blue-e’ed, rosy-cheek’d, gowden-haired lassie,—­only a thought paler than usual, sweet lily that she is,—­half sittin’ half lyin’ on the greensward, as she leans on the knee o’ her stalwart grand-father—­for the sermon’s begun, and all eyes are fastened on the preacher—­look at her till your heart melts, as if she were your ain, and God had given you that beautifu’ wee image o’ her sainted mother, and tell me if you think that a’ the tortures that cruelty could devise to inflict, would ever ring frae thae sweet innocent lips ae word o’ abjuration o’ the faith in which the flower is growing up amang the dew-draps o’ her native hills?

North.—­Never—­never—­never!

Shepherd.—­She proved it, sir, in death.  Tied to a stake on the sea-sands she stood; and first she heard, and then she saw, the white roarin’ o’ the tide.  But the smile forsook not her face; it brichten’d in her een when the water reach’d her knee; calmer and calmer was her voice of prayer, as it beat again’ her bonny breast; nae shriek when a wave closed her lips for ever; and methinks, sir,—­for ages on ages hae lapsed awa’ sin’ that martyrdom, and therefore Imagination may withouten blame dally wi’ grief—­methinks, sir, that as her golden head disappear’d, ‘twas like a star sinkin’ in the sea!