And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise.

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-“The foe! They come! they come !

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's

ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent.

THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON

BY PROFESSOR J. STUART BLACKIE

AT Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high,
Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye
Eager to leap, as a mettlesome hound,
Into the fray with a plunge and a bound,
But Wellington, lord of the cool command,
Held the reins with a steady hand,

Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough,
Giving the Frenchman a taste of your stuff,

When the Cameron men are wanted."

Now hotter and hotter the battle grew,
With tramp, and rattle, and wild halloo,
And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood,
Right on the ditch where Cameron stood.
Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance
On his captain brave a lightning glance,
Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy,
Take care of the road to Charleroi,

Where the Cameron men are wanted!"

Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow,
Into the midst of the plunging foe,

And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent
Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current ;
And he fell the first in the fervid fray,

Where a deathful shot had shore its way,

But his men pushed on where the work was rough,
Giving the Frenchman a taste of their stuff,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.

Brave Cameron then, from the battle's roar
His foster-brother stoutly bore,

His foster-brother, with service true,
Back to the village of Waterloo.
And they laid him on the soft green sod,
And he breathed his spirit there to God,
But not till he heard the loud hurrah
Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras,

Where the Cameron men were wanted.

By the road to Ghent they buried him then,
This noble chief of the Cameron men,
And not an eye was tearless seen
That day beside the alley green:
Wellington wept, the iron man ;
And from every eye in the Cameron clan
The big round drop in bitterness fell,
As with the pipes he loved so well

His funeral wail they chanted.

And now he sleeps (for they bore him home,
When the war was done, across the foam)
Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben

With his sires the pride of the Cameron men.
Three thousand Highlandmen stood round,
As they laid him to rest in his native ground-
The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed,
Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never
failed,

Where a Cameron man was wanted.

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL

BY LORD BYRON.

FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name-
She abandons me now-but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus
lonely,

The last single captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth; But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee

Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were

won:

Then the Eagle whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France !-But when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then,—
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again.
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-
There are links which must break in the chain that
has bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON (1769-1852)

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

THEN, Wellington! thy piercing eye
This crisis caught of destiny—

The British host had stood

That morn 'gainst charge of sword and lance
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance,

But when thy voice had said,

"Advance!

They were their ocean's flood.

O thou, whose inauspicious aim

Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame,
Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide
The terrors of yon rushing tide ?
Or will thy chosen brook to feel
The British shock of levell'd steel,
Or dost thou turn thine eye
Where coming squadrons gleam afar,
And fresher thunders wake the war,
And other standards fly ?—
Think not that in yon columns, file
Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle—
Is Blucher yet unknown?

Or dwells not in thy memory still,
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill)