Leave me unblessed, unpitied here to mourn:
In yon bright track that fires the western skies
They melt, they vanish from my eyes,

But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll?`
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:-
All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine !

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line:
Her lion port, her awe-commanding face
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colored wings.

"The verse adorn again

Fierce War and faithful love

And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskined measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice as of the cherub-choir

Gales from blooming Eden bear,

And distant warblings lessen on my ear

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond, impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me; with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign;

Be thine, Despair and sceptred Care;

To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

Thomas Gray.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled-
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led-
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower:
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'—
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do or die!

Robert Burns.

.118.

SUNDAY.

O Day most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud;
The endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with his blood;
The couch of Time; care's calm and bay;
The week were dark but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow;
The working days are the back part;

The burden of the week lies there;
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight-forward gone To endless death. But thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on one, Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose but look on still;

Since there is no place so alone
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are

On which heaven's palace archèd lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden; that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

Geo. Herbert.

* 119*

THE GARDEN SONG.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves,
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearis,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;”
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

"