If thou liv'st, my little darling,
Thou must taste of human woe;
But the sorrows of thy mother,
Oh, never may'st thou know!
Sleep thou on, 'mid pleasant dreams,
Oh, sleep thou till the morn—
Rest on thy mother's breaking heart,
My darling, my first-born!

Hush, my baby, lie thou still,

Nor dream of what thou art,

Nor know thou'rt press'd, O tender one,

To a mother's breaking heart!

WILLIAM STEWART ROSS.

CALEDONIA.

(From the Harp of the Valley). STERN land of the mind-mighty, My footfall's on the grave, Where grows the lordly thistle

From the hearts'-blood of the brave. Land of Stewarts, and my fathers, Who have battled by their side, Land of glory-land of Wallace, How I love thee as a bride!

Land of faith and land of song,
That slave and despot spurns,
Stern mother of the heart of Knox,
And the giant soul of Burns;
Land of beauty, land of love,

Oh, the world, from sea to sea, Holds none fairer than the daughters That have been born of thee!

Their word, Jehovah-jireh,

The crusaders of the Lord,

Bore down to the red land of death,
The Bible and the sword!

Land of might, and land of progress,
Land of intellect and fame,
There is life, and soul, and rapture,
In the spell-word of thy name.
Land of Stewarts, and my fathers,
Who have battled by their side,
Land of glory-land of Wallace,
How I love thee as a bride!

WILLIAM STEWART ROSS.

THE SCOT LEGION.

WE were not many-we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day,

Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years, if he but could

Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot is hail'd
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quail'd

When wounded comrades round them wail'd

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on, our column kept

Through walls of flame its withering way, Where fed the dead, the living slept;

Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe, himself, recoil'd aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swoop'd his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on these turrets wave,
And there the evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many-we who press'd
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confess'd
He'd rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.

BURN, O evening hearth, and waken
Pleasant visions as of old!

Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy

Builds her castles in the air,

Luring me by necromancy

Up the never-ending stair.

But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges
Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding
Blast or wind or torrent's roar,
As I follow the receding

Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture,
Naught avails the cry of pain!
When I touch the flying vesture,
'Tis the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and leaning
O'er the parapets of cloud,
Watch the mist that intervening
Wraps the valley in its shroud.

And the sounds of life ascending Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.

Well I know what there lies hidden,
Every tower, and town, and farm,
And again the land forbidden
Re-assumes its vanish'd charm.

Well I know the secret places,
And the nests in hedge and tree,
At what doors are friendly faces,
In what hearts are thoughts of me.