POSTSCRIPT 



The work, which has occupied so much of my leisure time during the last 

 two years, is iinished. When, twelve months since, I asked my friend WalHs 

 MacKay to give me a sketch for the verse from Shelley with which I 

 purposed to conclude this volume, I did not know how painfully appropriate 

 it would be, nor how many of my friends would have found that " place of 

 peace" before the work was concluded. 



The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; 

 No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, 



When it no more would roam ; 

 The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast 

 Break like a burstiue; heart, and die in foam. 

 And thus at length find rest. 

 Doubtless there is a place of peace. 

 Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. 





FINIS COEONAT OPUS. 



