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Would you wrest the wreath of fame from the hand of fate?

Would you write a deathless name with the good and great?

and soul imbue

Nobly dare the wildest storm, stem the Would you bless your fellow-men? Heart hardest gale; Brave of heart and strong of arm, you will With the holy task, and then Paddle never fail.

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your own canoe!"

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THE SWORD.

"TWAS the battle-field, and the cold pale

moon

Looked down on the dead and the dying; | And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, [lying. Where the young and the brave were

With his father's sword in his red right And the hostile dead around him, [hand, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,

And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it: [strength, He wrenched the hand with a giant's But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honoured the brave who died sword in hand,

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As with softened brow he bent o'er him.

'A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it;

Before I would take that sword from thy hand,

My own life's-blood should dye it. Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to fatten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee !" Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there in honour and rest,

With his sword in his own brave keeping. L. E. LANDON.

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

When, looking up with wistful eye, The Bruce beheld a spider try

FOR Scotland's and for freedom's right
The Bruce his part has played;-
In five successive fields of fight
Been conquered and dismayed:
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive, forlorn,

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place
For him who claimed a throne;-
His canopy, devoid of grace,

The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed-
Yet well I ween had slumber fled
From couch of eider down!
Through darksome night till dawn of
day,

Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam

Which roofed the lowly shed;

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot-
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.
Six times the gossamery thread
The wary spider threw ;---
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last!---
The hero hailed the sign!--
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender, silken line!
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen; for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even "he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.

BERNARD BARTON.

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Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.

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