to the Archbishop, whom he
designated _Judas_, to come forth." Sir William Sharp's account of
what now occurred, which would be doubtless related to him by his
sister, is as follows:--"They fired several shots at the coach, and
commanded my dearest father to come out, which he said he would.--When
he had come out, not being yet wounded, he said,--'Gentlemen, I beg my
life!' 'No--bloody villain, betrayer of the cause of Christ--no
mercy!' Then said he,--'I ask none for myself, but have mercy on my
poor child!' and, holding up his hand to one of them to get his, that
he would spare his child, he cut him on the wrist. Then falling down
upon his knees, and holding up his hands, he prayed that God would
forgive them; and begging mercy for his sins from his Saviour, they
murdered him by sixteen great wounds in his back, head, and one above
his left eye, three in his left hand when he was holding it up, with a
shot above his left breast, which was found to be powder. After this
damnable deed they took the papers out of his pocket, robbed my sister
and their servants of all their papers, gold, and money, and one of
these hellish rascals cut my sister on the thumb, when she had him by
the bridle begging her father's life."

So died with the calmness and intrepidity of a martyr this reverend
and learned prelate, maligned indeed by the fanatics of his own and
succeeding ages, but reverenced and beloved by those who best knew his
innate worth, unostentatious charity, and pure piety of soul. In the
words of a worthy Presbyterian divine of last century,--"His
inveterate enemies are agreed in ascribing to him the high praise of a
beneficent and humane disposition. He bestowed a considerable part of
his income in ministering to pressing indigence, and relieving the
wants of private distress. In the exercise of his charity, he had no
contracted views. The widows and orphans of the Presbyterian brethren
richly shared his bounty without knowing whence it came. He died with
the intrepidity of a hero, and the piety of a Christian, praying for
the assassins with his latest breath."

Gently ye fall, ye summer showers,
On blade, and leaf, and tree;
Ye bring a blessing to the earth,
But nane--O nane, to me!

Ye cannot wash this red right hand
Free from its deadly stain,
Ye cannot cool the burning ban
That lies within my brain.

O be ye still, ye blithesome birds,
Within the woodland spra