rayer,
His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
And bent a head with age and sorrow gray--
E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
They saw the white sails bearing him away.

And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

'Tis not for me to answer questions here--
Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!

JOHN RAMSAY.

The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at
Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early
apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards
traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the
carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in
the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered
misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a
collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the
sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the
country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise
has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent
society in Edinburgh.

FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,
By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,
I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,
That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,
Your beauties will gladden s