"All my friends have left me now, Mr. Lindsay," said the unfortunate poet--"they have all left me now; they love this present world. We were all going down, down, down; there was the roll of a river behind us; it came bursting over the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming down upon us; and though the fog was thick and dark below--far below, in the place to which we were going--I could see the red fire shining through--the red, hot, unquenchable fire; and we were all going down, down, down. Mother, mother, tell Mr. Lindsay I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow. Careless creature that I am--life is short, and I have lost much time; but I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow, and shall come forth a preacher of the word." The thunder which had hitherto been muttering at a distance--each peal, however, nearer and louder than the preceding one--now began to roll overhead, and the lightning, as it passed the window, to illumine every object within. The hapless poet stretched out his thin wasted arm, as if addressing a congregation from the pulpit:-- "There were the flashings of lightning," he said, "and the roll of thunder; and the trumpet waxed louder and louder. And around the summit of the mountain were the foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell brown and dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the wild beasts lay trembling in their dens. But, lo! where the sun breaks through the opening of the cloud, there is the glitter of tents--the glitter of ten thousand tents that rise over the sandy waste, thick as waves of the sea. And there, there is the voice of the dance and of the revel, and the winding of horns and the clash of cymbals. Oh, sit nearer me, dearest mother, for the room is growing dark, dark; and, oh, my poor head! 'The lady sat on the castle wa', Look'd ower baith dale and down, And then she spied Gil-Morice head Come steering through the town.' Do, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and do hold it fast ere it part. How fearfully--oh, how fearfully it aches!--and oh, how it thunders!" He sunk backward on the pillow, apparently exhausted. "Gone, gone, gone," he muttered; "my mind gone for ever. But God's will be done." I rose to leave the room; for I could restrain my feelings no longer. "Stay, Mr. Lindsay," said the poet, in a feeble voice; "I hear the rain dashing on the pavement; you must not go till it abates. Would that you could pray beside me!--but, no--you are not like the dissolute companions who have now all left me, but you are not yet fitted for that; and, alas! I cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see that there be prayers at my lykewake; for-- 'Her lykewake, it was piously spent In social prayer and praise, Performed by judicious men, Who stricken were in days. 'And many a heavy, heavy heart Was in that mournful place; And many a weary, weary thought On her who slept in peace.'