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tend to the honor and glorification of Him whom one of them had declared to be, and whom they all knew to be, the Son of God that was to come into the world. So Martha serves ; Lazarus, it is specially noticed, takes place at the table, the visible living proof of the omnipotence of his Lord; Mary performs the tender office of a mournfully foreseeing love, that thought nought too pure or too costly for its God—that tender office which, though grudgingly rebuked by Judas and, alas! others than Judas, who could not appreciate the depths of such a devotion, nevertheless received a praise which it has been declared shall evermore hold its place on the pages of the Book of Life.

But that Sabbath soon passed away. Ere night came on numbers even of those who were seldom favorably disposed to our Lord, now came to see both Him and the living monument of His merciful omnipotence. The morrow probably brought more of these half-curious, half-awed, yet, as would now seem, in a great measure believing visitants. The deep heart of the people was stirred, and the time was fully come when ancient prophecy was to receive its fulfilment, and the daughter of Zion was to welcome her King. Yea, and in kingly state shall He come. Begirt not only by the smaller band of His own disciples but by the great and now hourly increasing multitude, our Lord leaves the little wooded vale that had ministered to Him its Sabbathday of seclusion and repose, and directs His way onward to Jerusalem. As yet, however, in but humble guise and as a pilgrim among pilgrims. He traverses the rough mountain-track which the modern traveller can

now somewhat hopefully identify; every step bringing him nearer to the ridge of Olivet, and to that hamlet or district of Bethpage, the exact site of which it is so hard to fix, but which was separated perhaps only by some narrow valley from the road along which the procession was now wending its way.

But the Son of David must not solemnly enter the city of David as a scarcely distinguishable wayfarer amid a mixed and wayfaring throng. Prophecy must have its full and exact fulfilment; the King must approach the city of the King with some meek symbols

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of kingly majesty. With haste, it would seem, two disciples are dispatched to the village over against them, to bring to Him“ who had need of it " the colt “whereon yet never man sat;” with haste the zealous followers cast upon it their garments, and all-unconscious of the significant nature of their act, place thereon their Master—the coming King. Strange it would have been if feelings such as now were eagerly stirring in every heart had not found vent in words. Strange indeed if, with the Hill of Zion now breaking upon their view, long prophetic past had not seemed to mingle with the present, and evoke those shouts of mysterious welcome and praise, which first beginning with the disciples and those immediately round our Lord, soon were heard from every mouth of that glorifying multitude. And not from them alone. Numberless others there were fast streaming up Olivet, a palm-branch in every hand, to greet the raiser of Lazarus and the conqueror of Death; and now all join. One common feeling of holy enthusiasm now pervades that mighty multitude, and displays itself in befitting acts. Garments are torn off and cast down before the Holy One; green boughs bestrew the way; Zion's King rides onward in meek majesty, a thousand voices before, and a thousand voices behind, rising up to heaven with Hosannas and with mingled words of magnifying acclamation, some of which once had been sung to the Psalmist's harp, and some heard even from angelic tongues. If the suddenly opening view of Zion may have caused the excited feelings of that multitude to pour themselves forth in words of triumphant praise, surely we know that on our Redeemer's nearer approach to the city, as it rose up, perhaps suddenly, in all its extent and magnificence before Him, tears fell from those Divine eyes-yea, the Saviour of the world wept over the city wherein He had come to suffer and die. The lengthening procession again moves onward, slowly descending into the deep valley of the Kedron, and slowly winding up the opposite slope, until at length by one of the eastern gates it passes into one of the now crowded thoroughfares of the Holy City. Such was the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem.-Lectures on the Life of Our Lord.

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ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT, a Scottish orator and poet, third baronet and father of the first earl of Minto, was born, probably at Minto House, the family seat in Teviotdale, in September, 1722, and died at Marseilles, France, January 11, 1777. He attended the Dalkeith grammar school, entered the University of Edinburgh, and subsequently studied at Leyden. He was early known as “a distinguished classical scholar,” and said himself, in a letter written before he was thirty years old, that he had read through almost all the classics, both Greek and Latin. He was called to the Scotch bar in 1742, and in 1754 he entered Parliament. He became Lord of the Admiralty in 1756, Treasurer of the Chambers in 1762, Keeper of the Signet in Scotland in 1767, and Treasurer of the Navy in 1770. Walpole characterized him as one of the ablest members of the House of Commons, where, according to the historian Robertson, no one excelled him in acuteness of reasoning and practical information ; and Boswell quotes his elocution as a model for Scotch orators. He was the special confidant of George III., whom he supported in his unhappy policy toward America. He was intimate with the principal literary celebrities of his time, and several famous authors submitted their manuscripts to him before publication. Hume sent him the draft of his Dialogues of Natural Religion, desiring his collaboration; which, however, was refused, and Elliot—who “disapproved of the sceptical philosophy”—wrote Hume a long criticism on the latter's general theory. Sir Gilbert is said to have left a manuscript volume of poems, but only a few of his lines have been published. He has been wrongly credited with the authorship of several poems, and both he and his father have been erroneously spoken of as introducers of the flute into Scotland. Sir Gilbert's sister Jean was authoress of the patriotic song The Flowers of the Forest; his own fame as a songwriter rests upon Amynta, styled by Sir Walter Scott “the beautiful pastoral song." It was printed in the first volume of Yair's Charmer, 1749.

In vol. ii. of Johnson's Scots Musical Mu. seum it was, by a mistake of the printer, published under the title My Apron Dearie, that being the name of the tune to which it was set. Elliot's verses on Colonel Gardiner, killed at Prestonpans in 1745, 'Twas at the Hour of Dark Midnight, were printed in vol. iii. of Johnson's Scots Musical Museum to the tune of Sawnie's Pipe. The Fanny of the song was Colonel Gardiner's daughter Richmond. Some stanzas entitled Thoughts occasioned by the Funeral of the Earl and Countess of Sutherland in Hollyrood House, published in Scots Magazine with the editorial note, Composed we believe by a person of distinction, were republished in Censura Literaria, where they are attributed by Sir Ed. ward Bridges to Sir Gilbert Elliot.

AMYNTA.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove :
For Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.

Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do!
Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love.
O, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!

Alas! 'tis too late at my fate to repine ;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine;
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.

'TWAS AT THE HOUR OF DARK MIDNIGHT.

'Twas at the hour of dark midnight,

Before the first cock's crowing, When westland winds shook Stirling's tow'rs,

With hollow murmurs blowing ;
When Fanny fair, all woe-begone,

Sad on her bed was lying,
And from the ruined tow'rs she heard

The boding screeching-owl crying.

“O dismal night !" she said, and wept,

“O night presaging sorrow : O dismal night,” she said, and wept,

“But more I dread the morrow. For now the bloody hour draws nigh,

Each host to Preston bending;
At morn shall sons their fathers slay,

With deadly hate contending.

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