TO DAVID GRAY. (Author of "The Luggie," &c.) I WOULD not be lying yonder, Though the nations should crown me living, Better this fierce pulsation Better this aching brain Than dream and hear faintly above me Than lie in the kirkyard lonely, And be conscious of never a motion Save the slow rolling round of the world. I would not be lying yonder, Though the seeds I had sown were springing; I would not be sleeping yonder, And be done with striving and singing. For the eyes are blinded with mildew— The brain is warm and glowing, It stirs like a thing that breatheth If the brain like a thing that breatheth Is full of the Past and To Be, The silence is far more awful And the hope that sweetened living And the dreams are heavy with losses, ROBERT BUCHANAN. THE HIGHLAND HILLS. THE Highland Hills! There are songs of mirth, The Highland Hills! It is summer now, The Highland Hills! When the sparkling rays When the noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow. Then, roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echoes wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild in thy heart instils The Highland Hills! When the noonday smiles And thy heart unknown to the care that chills, The Highland Hills! In the twilight dim, The Highland Hills! There are palm-tree bowers, And spicy groves with their balmy flowers; Where Araby's children love to roam And the rugged shores of our own loved land, Where Nature reigns as her fancy wills, In the mountain glen and the Highland Hills. CONNOR'S VOW. (From the "Scotsman.") "I'm going, Mora, darling!" Sure the vow I've sworn on high, For my country's cause to die; While this sword's by my side !" "Oh stay, Connor, dearest ! Sweet husband adored; Thy last plighted word. With the baby at my breast!" The bugles they are sounding Soft the summer winds are sighing Sleeps the bravest of the brave, With his sword by his side! JAMES SMITH. THE LANCES OF THE FREE. "Ho, dark one from the golden South, Ho, fair one from the North; Ho, coat of mail, and spear of sheen Ho, wherefore ride ye forth?" "We come from mount, we come from cave, We come across the sea, In long array, in bright array, Oh, the merry, merry band, "Ho, princes of the castled height, Ho, burghers of the town; Apulia's strength, Romagna's pride, And Tusca's old renown! Why quail ye thus? Why pall ye thus ? |