must drink comes out from eternity and the undefined." A serpent encircles the hand which offers it. The dying man is surrounded by the representatives of the Roman, the Mohammedan, the Persian, the Jewish church, and the untutored man of the New World. "Apart from these the naked intellectual man lifts his head from long study, and confesses his darkness by covering his eyes, and laying his finger on his lips." But the dying man heeds them not; half raised in his bed, he seizes the cup, and steadfastly, with an intensity of gaze such as we see only in the face of the dying, he looks forward into that eternity now become. reality to him.

Such is a brief description of these remarkable outlines; for power of religious thought and expression, we know of no pictures to be compared with them.

Among the last works of David Scott was a series of forty designs illustrative of the Pilgrim's Progress of his fellow-countryman, John Bunyan. No subject could have been more happily adapted to his powers. They are equal to the work they illustrate, and we need say no more; for the religious world has long ago pronounced that immortal. In speaking of the designs of Stothard we mentioned that he also drew illustrations of this great allegory. The contrast in the character and circumstances of these two men is finely shown in the difference which exists between these pictures. Stothard dwells on the pleasing moments of comfort and peace when the pilgrim rested from his sore struggles, but Scott dares to enter into the thickest of the fight. A most remarkable instance of this diversity is shown in the scene where Christian is first overwhelmed by the thought of the destruction impending over the city. In Stothard, a young man is narrating the story to his wife and children with much animation, and they listen with interest and curiosity. In Scott, Christian, a middle-aged man, bends over his Bible in a profound and earnest struggle with his own soul, just aroused to the thought of the terrible ques

tions of eternal life. His wife and children look in at the door, awe-struck and amazed.

Stothard's is the Pilgrim's Progress which delighted our childhood, but Scott reveals its deep meaning as applicable to the hardest realities of inward life. Nothing can surpass the energy and power of these pictures. "Christian

climbing the Hill Difficulty," "The Fight with Apollyon," and the entrance into the "Dark Valley of the Shadow of Death," are wonderful in conception and execution. Nor does he fail in the more tender passages. "The Hand from Heaven healing Christian's Wounds," "The Meeting of the Shepherds on the Delectable Mountains," and, above all, “The Martyrdom of Faithful,” are full of tender and lofty beauty. He has dared the highest flight which human power can essay in these sketches, and he has not failed. Had David. Scott done nothing else, these would for ever stamp him as an artist of the highest order, and still more as a man of profound religious life. If we can lead any one to interest and study in his works, our difficult task will be well repaid.

'T was Passion week; and as, one morn,

I lay, in blissful calm,

Attent to hear the Sabbath bells

Ring out their sweet alarm,

That magic touch, subduing, warm,

Upon my eyelids fell,

Which woos us to the silent realm

Endymion knew so well;

And lo! a vision, ne'er forgot,

My yielding senses caught,

And swayed with firm, electric force

The pulses of my thought.

Somewhere, within that shadowy land
We call the land of dreams,—
Whose luminous, unbounded space
A land celestial seems,

A youthful, maiden form reposed,
'Mid opening blossoms; there
White lilies, from their slender buds,
Strewed perfumes on the air;

And every beauteous thing that owes
Its grace to sun and shower,
With forms of varying loveliness,
Made jubilant the hour.

Soon, bathed in rays of crimson light,

On wings translucent borne,

A shining spirit floated down

The golden beams of morn;
And, hovering silently awhile,
As if in wonder bound,

With an harmonious, joyful shout

Awoke the realm of sound.

Swift at the voice, in radiant troops,

Around the maiden flew

A shining multitude, and each

His dainty office knew.

These lengthen out the glittering threads That form her tresses bright;

These smooth to glossy waves of gold,

And float them on the light;

These to its deep recesses pierce

The rose's ruddy heart,

And deftly to her arching lips

The brilliant hue impart;

These to her cheeks' soft beauty lend

A richer, deeper glow,

And warmer flushes lay upon

Her tender limbs of snow.

Then to harmonious symmetry

The pliant form they mould,
And in Cytherea's mystic zone
Her virgin waist enfold.

And now the wide, illumined space
With swift and glistening feet,
Commingling their exultant songs,

Triumphantly they beat.

When lo! as, 'mid the deepening trance,

Bewildered, lost, amazed,

Upon the vision marvellous,

With trembling doubt I gazed,

From circling lily-bands of white,

From ranks of blushing red,

From golden daisies that had strewn

With sweets her mossy bed,

From rows of purple hyacinths,

And clustering violets blue,

That o'er her pillow soft had shed
Their fragrance and their hue,
Enthroned amid a thousand wings

That flashed with radiant light,
Supreme in mortal womanhood,
She rose upon my sight.

From sleep's mysterious shore I looked
In wonder, blent with fear.

She was alone: no sound I heard;
No spirit hovered near;

While, life-like, glowing, palpable,
Yet tender and serene,

Day's airy spaces were illumed
By her transcendent mien.

But lo! the more my charméd sense

Confessed the rare delight,

The more my nobler thought denied
Its fealty to plight.

For oh! the highest, holiest grace

Of womanhood I missed;

And, half unconsciously, the cross

About my neck I kissed.

Not there, I said, the love divine,

That fires the chastened soul,

And wins the strong, the manly breast

To its benign control,

Whose beams transcend the glory round

The Virgin Mother's head,

And by whose steadfast, liberal light

Dependent souls are led.

While thus I mused, on every side

Appeared a countless throng

Of treacherous sirens, springing forth
With dance and shout and song;

And though of harsh aspéct were some,

Some saintly fair to see,

Each to the maid a Circean cup

Held forth alluringly.

"O perilled one!" methought I cried,

"Heed not the sparkling bowl;

Fate worse than death within it dwells,

It will betray thy soul!"

But vain my words: the nectar-drops

Are sweet unto the taste;

So sweet, the maiden waiteth not,

But drinks with dangerous haste.