Of one to his own purpose true,

Pizarro-word of fame!

And yet 'tis well the world hath few
Who live by such a claim.

The waves have washed his mark of pride From the bleak and houseless shore;

But o'er his realms from side to side

His name is writ in gore,

Nor Time, with his ever-rolling tide,
Shall brighten his memory more.

Wild are the hurricanes that sweep
Through the vallies of Peru,

And wild the torrent-streams that leap
From the mountain-summits blue;

But a wilder tempest crossed the deep

With Pizarro and his Crew;

That land seems yet to crouch and weep,

Stricken with terror through!

THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE.

'If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink."

'MID the hot desert, where the Pilgrim pines For the cool shadow and the streamlet clear, Seeking his weary way to Zion's shrines,

A fountain murmurs comfort in his ear.

Stern winter seals not up that source of bliss,
The eastern sunbeam never drinks it dry;
Fresh flowers and greenest grass its waters kiss,
And whispering palms defend it from the sky.

There men of every clime refreshment seek;
All sins and sorrows meet securely there;
These waves have kissed Remorse's haggard cheek,
And smoothed the wrinkles on the brow of Care.

The lip of Passion there hath quenched its flame,
While pale Contrition sadly hung its head;
That fount hath mirrored back the blush of Shame,

And washed the savage hand, with murder red!

Sinner! for thee a purer fountain flows,

To soothe the sorrowful, to help the weak, To wash the reddest crimes, like spotless snows

That gleam on Lebanon's untrodden peak.

Come! men of every crime and every care; Behold the words upon that fountain's brink— If any sigh in sin, to Me repair;

Or thirst in sorrow, 'Come to Me and drink!'

The Word of God is that unfailing fount;
Life is the desert where its waters flow;
Drink! if you hope to win the holy mount,

Where Zion's shrines in light eternal glow.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE.

SOON as his daily race is run,

In glory sinks the setting sun;
But rises o'er some other land,
Bright as he left his Maker's hand.
So do I wish, life's journey o'er,
My soul to set, and yet to soar,
And bask, 'neath ever-glorious skies,
'Mid the green fields of Paradise.
As God appoints, then, let me run,

And thou shalt be my type, obedient sun!

DENMILN, OR THE LAST OF THE
BALFOURS.

Denmiln Castle, situated between the banks of the Tay, near Newburgh, and the Lake of Lindores, was the ancient seat of the once powerful, but now extinct family of Balfour. One of this house, whose ashes rest in a burial place on the shores of the above-mentioned lake, is recorded by Sibbald to have led three hundred followers, all, or mostly, kinsmen, to the Palace of Falkland, to pay their homage to the reigning king. Sir James, the chief of the Balfours, is well known to the student of history as the author of the "Annals of Scotland." During the reigns of Charles I. and II. he held the office of "Lyon King-at-Arms." One of this house fell on Flodden Field; a second was slain in a duel with Makgill of Rankiellour, near Cross Macduff; a third founded the Surgeon's Hall, Edinburgh, and established the Botanic Gardens; and the last disappeared in the manner described in the following ballad. Conjecture supposed him to have gone over to the wars in the Low Countries; for although the whole district was diligently searched, in the supposition that he had come to an accidental death, no traces of the last of the Balfours were ever discovered.

IN sorrow and in silence

I gaze on yonder pile,

Around whose mouldering battlements
The beams of evening smile;