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CLANSMAN.

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?

If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know

That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe

Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,

And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,

There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds

are prancing,

'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,

Then raise your wild slogan-cry- -on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-ccho the challenge again!

When o'er the heart come thoughts o' wae,
Like shadows on Glenfillan's tower.
Is this the weird that I maun dree,
And a' around sae glad and gay,
Oh hon an righ, oh hon an righ,

Young Donald frae his love's away.

The winter snaw nac mair does fa',
The rose blooms in our mountain bower,
The wild flowers on the castle wa'

Are glintin' in the summer shower.
But what are summer's smiles to me,
When he nae langer here could stay;
Oh hon an righ, oh hon an righ,

Young Donald frae his love's away. For Scotland's crown, and Charlie's right, The fire-cross o'er our hills did flee, And loyal swords were glancin' bright,

And Scotia's bluid was warm and free. And though nae gleam of hope I see,

My prayer is for a brighter day:
Oh hon an righ, oh hon an righ,
Young Donald frae his love's away.

OLD SCOTLAND.

The breeze blows fresh, my gallant mates,
Our vessel cleaves her way,

Down ocean's depths, o'er heaven's heights,
Through darkness and through spray.
No loving moon shines out for us,

No star our course to tell

And must we leave old Scotland thus?
My native land, farewell!

Then fast spread out the flowing sheet,
Give welcome to the wind!

Is there a gale we'd shrink to meet
When treachery's behind?

The foaming deep our couch will be,
The storm our vesper bell,
The low'ring heaven our canopy,
My native land, farewell!

Away, away across the main,

We'll seek some happier clime,

Where daring is not deemed a stain,

Nor loyalty a crime.

Our hearts are wrung, our minds are toss'd,
Wild as the ocean's swell;

A kingdom and a birthright lost!
Old Scotland, fare thee well!

YOUNG DONALD.

An eiry night, a cheerless day,
A lanely hame at gloamin' hour,

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be, In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd

to me,

And the hopes which once blo m'd in my bosom are gone;

I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night Will oft bring thine image again to my sight, And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by, A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet though misfortune fall chill O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that low'rs on the lea,

And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still, While I know that one heart still beats warmly

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JOHN STERLING.

BORN 1806- DIED 1844.

JOHN STERLING, the second son of Edward and Hester Sterling, was born at Kames Castle, in the island of Bute, July 20, 1806. His parents were born in Ireland, but were both of good Scotch families. When John was three years old the family removed to Llanblethian in Glamorganshire, and here his childhood was nurtured amid scenes of wild and romantic beauty. At first he attended a school in the little town of Cowbridge, and when the family removed to London in 1814 he was sent to schools at Greenwich and Blackheath, and finally to Christ's Hospital. When at school he was known as a novel-reader, devouring everything that came in his way. At sixteen he was sent to Glasgow University, and at twenty he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he had for his tutor Julius Hare, the future archdeacon, one of his two biographers, Thomas Carlyle being the other. Though not an exact scholar, Sterling became extensively and well read. His studies were irregular and discursive, but extended over a wide range. Among his companions at college were Richard Trench, Frederick Maurice, Lord Houghton (then Monckton Milnes), and others, who were afterwards his fast friends through life.

many, where he met his friend and former tutor, with whom he had much serious conversation on religious topics, which resulted in his entering the Church. He returned to England, was ordained deacon in 1834, and became Mr. Hare's curate at Hertsmonceux immediately after. He entered earnestly on the duties of his new calling, but after a few months he resigned on the plea of delicate health, and returned to London. For the sake of a more genial climate he went to France, and afterwards to Madeira, occupying his leisure hours in writing prose and poetry for Blackwood. In addition to his numerous contributions to this magazine and the quarterlies, he was the author of Arthur Coningsby, a novel published in 1830. Professor Wilson early recognized his merit as a poet and essayist, and bestowed very lavish praise upon him. He was a swift genius, Carlyle likening him to "s sheet-lightning."

For several years Sterling led a kind of nomadic life, fleeing from place to place in search of health. He visited London for the last time in 1843, when Carlyle dined with him. "I remember it," he says, "as one of the saddest dinners; though Sterling talked copiously, and our friends-Theodore Parker one of them were pleasant and distinguished men. All was so haggard in one's memory, and half-consciously in one's anticipations: sad, as if one had been dining in a ruin, in the crypt of a mausoleum." Carlyle saw Sterling afterwards, and the following is the conclusion of his last interview with him:-"We parted before long; bed-time for invalids being come, he escorted me down certain carpeted back-stairs, and would not be forbidden. We took leave under the dim skies; and, alas! little as I then dreamt of it, this, so far as I can calculate, must have been the last time I ever saw him in the world. Softly as a common In evening the last of the evenings had passed away, and no other would come for me for evermore." Sterling died at his residence at

The law had been originally intended as Sterling's profession, but after hesitating for some time he at last decided upon literature, and, joining his friend Maurice, purchased the Athenæum, in which appeared his first literary effusions. In 1830 he married Miss Susannah Barton, daughter of Lieut.-General Barton. Soon after his marriage he became seriously ill --so ill that his life was long despaired of. His lungs were affected, and the doctors recommended a warmer climate. He accordingly went to the West Indies, and spent upwards of a year in the beautiful island of St. Vincent, where some valuable property had been left to the Sterling family by a maternal uncle. 1832 he returned to England greatly improved in health. From thence he proceeded to Ger

Ventnor in the Isle of Wight, Sept. 18, 1844,- | speaking of his religious opinion was unneces

cut down, like Shelley and Keats and Michael Bruce, when on the road to fame. His remains were interred in the beautiful little burialground of Bonchurch.

In 1839 a volume of Sterling's poems was issued in London, and reprinted in the United States. They are full of tenderness, fancy, and truth. "The Sexton's Daughter," a striking lyrical ballad written in early youth, is among the most popular of his poetical productions. In 1841 his poem in seven books, entitled "The Election," was published, followed in 1843 by the spirited tragedy of "Strafford." 66 Essays and Tales by John Sterling, collected and edited, with a Memoir of his Life, by Julius Charles Hare, M. A., Rector of Hertsmonceux," in two volumes, was published in London in 1848. On reading that life, interesting and beautiful though it is, one could not help feeling that there was a great deal remaining untold, and that the tone in

sarily apologetic. To this circumstance we owe the "Life by Carlyle," in which a correspondent says: "Archdeacon Hare takes up Sterling as a clergyman merely. Sterling I find was a curate for exactly eight months; during eight months and no more had he any special relation to the Church. But he was a man, and had relation to the Universe for eight-andthirty years; and it is in this latter character, to which all the others were but features and transitory hues, that we wish to know him. His battle with hereditary church formulas was severe; but it was by no means his one battle with things inherited, nor indeed his chief battle; neither, according to my observation of what it was, is it successfully delineated or summed up in this book." And so his countryman and friend gave to the world another and a better portraiture of John Sterling-one of those lovely and noble spirits that charm and captivate all beholders.

TO A CHILD.

Dear child! whom sleep can hardly tamo,
As live and beautiful as flame,
Thou glancest round my graver hours
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers
Were not by mortal forehead worn,
But on the summer breeze were borne,
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves
Came glistening down from dreamy caves.

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow
Delight and wonder come and go;
And eyes whose inward meanings play,
Congenial with the light of day;
And brow so calm, a home for thought
Before he knows his dwelling wrought;
Though wise indeed thou seemest not,
Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot.
That shout proclaims the undoubting mind;
That laughter leaves no ache behind;
And in thy look and dance of glee,
Unforced, unthought of, simply free,
How weak the schoolman's formal art
Thy soul and body's bliss to part!
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord,
In gaze and glance, in voice and word.

In spite of all foreboding fear,
A thing thou art of present cheer;
And thus to be beloved and known,

As is a rushy fountain's tone,
As is the forest's leafy shade,
Or blackbird's hidden serenade:
Thou art a flash that lights the whole-
A gush from nature's vernal soul.

And yet, dear child! within thee lives
A power that deeper feeling gives,
That makes thee more than light or air,
Than all things sweet, and all things fair;
And sweet and fair as aught may be,
Diviner life belongs to thee,
For 'mid thine aimless joys began
The perfect heart and will of man.

Thus what thou art foreshows to me
How greater far thou soon shalt be;
And while amid thy garlands blow
The winds that warbling come and go,
Ever within, not loud but clear,
Prophetic murmur fills the ear,
And says that every human birth
Anew discloses God to earth.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl,-
"I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl;
Fly with me from this garden small,
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall.

The fair white bird of flaming crest,

And azure wings bedropt with gold, Ne'er has he known a pause of rest,

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and plea

sure,

Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;
Here with my sword and horse I stand,
To bear thee away to my distant land.

"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,
A token of love that as ripely blows.'
With his glove of steel he pluck'd the token,
But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.

The maiden exclaim'd, "Thou seest, Sir Knight,
Thy fingers of iron can only smite;

And, like the rose thou hast torn and scatter'd,
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."

She trembled and blush'd, and her glances fell; But she turned from the Knight, and said, "Farewell!"

"Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,
And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,
Who snatched his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled,
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped;

And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse

Was the living man, and the woman's corso.

That morning the rose was bright of hue; That morning the maiden was fair to view; But the evening sun its beauty shed

On the wither'd leaves, and the maiden dead.

THE SPICE-TREE.

The spice-tree lives in the garden green;
Beside it the fountain flows;

And a fair bird sits the boughs between,
And sings his melodious woes.

No greener garden e'er was known
Within the bounds of an earthly king;
No lovelier skies have ever shone
Than those that illumine its constant Spring.

That coil-bound stem has branches three;
On each a thousand blossoms grow;
And, old as aught of time can be,
The root stands fast in the rock below.

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire The fount that builds a silvery dome; And flakes of purple and ruby fire Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.

But sings the lament that he framed of old.

"O! Princess bright! how long the night
Since thou art sunk in the waters clear!
How sadly they flow from the depth below-
How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear?

"The waters play, and the flowers are gay,
And the skies are sunny above;

I would that all could fade and fall,
And I too cease to mourn my love.

"O! many a year, so wakeful and drear,

I have sorrow'd and watched, beloved, for thee! But there comes no breath from the chambers of death,

While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree."

The skies grow dark, and they glare with red,
The tree shakes off its spicy bloom;
The waves of the fount in a black pool spread,
And in thunder sounds the garden's doom.

Down springs the bird with long shrill cry,
Into the sable and angry flood;

And the face of the pool, as he falls from high,
Curdles in circling stains of blood.

But sudden again upswells the fount;
Higher and higher the waters flow-
In a glittering diamond arch they mount,
And round it, the colours of morning glow.

Finer and finer the watery mound
Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil,
And tones of music circle around,

And bear to the stars the fountain's tale.

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And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth,

Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth.
Amid the sights and tales of common things,
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of
kings,-

Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round,
Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground,
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by,
And haunt with living presence heart and eye;
And tones from him, by other bosoms caught,
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought,
And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill,
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will.
Above the goodly land, more his than ours,
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers;
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
O shaping brain! O flashing fancy's hues!
O boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews!
O wit humane and blithe! O sense sublime!
For each dim oracle of mantled Time!
Transcendant Form of Man! in whom we read
Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought, and
Deed!

Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee,
We know how vast our world of life may be;
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine,
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine.

"Tis our stored and ample dwelling; "Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,

Land and water, sun and shadeWork with these, as bids thy reason,

For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness;
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness-
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

THE TWO OCEANS.

Two seas, amid the night,

In the moonshine roll and sparkleNow spread in the silver light,

Now sadden, and wail, and darkle; The one has a billowy motion,

And from land to land it gleams;
The other is sleep's wide ocean,
And its glimmering waves are dreams:
The one, with murmur and roar,

Bears fleet around coast and islet;
The other, without a shore,
Ne'er knew the track of a pilot.

THE HUSBANDMAN.

Earth, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother, Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom,

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, Golden ear and clustered wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;

Man's a king; his throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage-
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,

All from dust receive their birth.

Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures, Earthly goods for earthly lives— These are nature's ancient pleasures;

These her child from her derives. What the dream, but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee?

LOUIS XV.

The king with all his kingly train
Had left his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood
The royal beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the monarch mused,
And turning suddenly away,
He struck alone into a path
That far from crowds and courtiers lay.

He saw the pale green shadows play
Upon the brown untrodden earth;
He saw the birds around him flit
As if he were of peasant birth;
He saw the trees that knew no king
But him who bears a woodland axe;
He thought not, but he looked about
Like one who skill in thinking lacks.

Then close to him a footstep fell,
And glad of human sound was he,
For truth to say he found himself
A weight from which he fain would flee.
But that which he would ne'er have guessed
Before him now most plainly came;

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