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"Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale He loosed his hold, and his English heart moon

Took part with the dead before him; Looked down on the dead and the dying; And he honoured the brave who died sword And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and in hand, & wail,

[lying. As with softened brow he bent o'er him. Where the young and the brave were

A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, With his father's sword in his red right A soldier's grave won by it;

And the hostile dead around him, [hand, Before I would take that sword from thy Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the hand, ground,

My own life's-blood should dye it. And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Or the wolf to fatten o'er thee;

Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Careless he stepped where friend and foe Who in life had trembled before thee ! Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, Where his warrior foe was sleeping;

The soldier paused beside it: (strength, And he laid him there in honour and He wrenched the hand with a giant's rest, But the grasp of the dead defied it.

With his sword in his own brave keeping.



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 fied

From couch of eider down !
Through darksome night till dawn of

Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay

Of Scotland and her crown.

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

His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude coi-
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 recoilod
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.


The sun rose brightly, and its gleam

Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless

Which roofed the lowly shed;

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


Yonder is a little drum hanging on the wall; | Around him many a parching tongue for Dusty wreaths, and tattered flags, round “ Water!” faintly crying: about it fall.

Oh, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with A shepherd youth, on Cheviot's hills, velvet verdure spread, watched the sheep whose skin

Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where A cunning workman wrought, and gave oft he made his bed! the little drum its din.

Or could he drink of those sweet rills that

trickle to its vales,

Or breathe once more the balminess of Oh, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread;

Cheviot's mountain gales! And pleasant 'tis among its heath to make your summer bed;

At length upon his wearied eyes the And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that mists of slumber come, trickle to its vales,

And he is in his home again-till wakened And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the by the drum! passing gales.

“Take arms! take arms!” his leader cries, And thus hath felt the shepherd-boy whilst “the hated foeman's nigh!” tending of his fold;

Guns loudly roar, steel clanks on steel, Nor thought there was, in all the world, a and thousands fall to die. spot like Cheviot's wold.

The shepherd's blood makes red the sand:

Oh, water!-give me some! And so it was for many a day; but change “My voice might reach a friendly ear—but with time will come,

for that little drum!” And he-alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum!

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the "Follow," said the drummer-boy, “would drummer kept his way, you live in story!

And many a one, by "glory” lured, did For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a

curse the drum that day. wreath of glory!”

Rub-a-dub!” and “rub-a-dub!” the Rub-a-dub!”

rub-a-dub!” the

drummer beat alouddrummer beats away

The shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the The shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er

hot sand was his shroud. Cheviot wildly stray!

And this is "glory?”—Yes; and still will

man the tempter follow, On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd Nor learn that Glory, like its Drum, is but now is lying;

a sound -and hollow !


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Fairest and best adorned is she
Whose clothing is humility.

THE bird that soars on highest wing,

Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest;'

In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightent

In deepest adoration bends;
The weight of glory bows him down,

Then most when most his soul ascends;
- Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.


When Mary chose the "better part,"

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently-opened heart

Was made for God's own temple meet;


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ADIEU ! adieu !" Father Winter said The fountains you lock up so tight,

To the world, when about to quit it; When I shall give them a sunning,
With his old white wig half off his head, Will sparkle in my dazzling light,
As if never made to fit it.

And the brooks will set to running.
“ Adieu ! I'm off to the rocks and caves,
To leave all here behind me;

The boughs you've caked all o'er with ice, Or, perhaps, I'll sink in the northern waves,

'Tis chilling to behold them; So deep that none can find me.

I stick them round with buds so nice

My breath alone can unfold them. Good luck! good luck to your hoary And when the tree is in blossoms dressed, locks!”

The bird with her songs so merry Said the gay young Spring, advancing;. Will come on its limb to build her nest, “Go take your nap’mid the caves and rocks, By the sign of the future cherry.

While I o'er the earth am dancing.
There's not a spot where your foot has trod, The earth and air by their joyfulness
You hard old clumsy fellow !

Shall show the good I'm doing;
Not a hill nor a vale nor a single sod,

And the skies beam down with smiles, to But what I shall have to mellow,


The course that I'm pursuing.”And I shall spread them o'er with grass, Said Winter then, “I would have you learn

That will look so fresh and cheering, By me, my gay new comer ! None will regret that they let you pass To push off, too, when it comes your turn, Far out of sight and hearing.

And yield your place to Summer."

Miss H. F. Got'LD.

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