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THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

HEART! that didst press forward still*
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart !-and liest thou here?

May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that could so beat and burn ?
Heart! that lov’dst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent-save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;

Silent-save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee;
-Sleepst thou as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep?

No, brave heart! though cold and lone,
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O’er the whispering solitude ?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free ;
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute though stately tread ;
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night ;
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.

* Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!” With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruco into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.

Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Armed to follow thee, or die ?-
Now, true heart ! as thou wert wont,
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the Cross wave proudly o'er thee.

Dreams—the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain !

HEMANS.

THE SCOTTISH EXILE'S FAREWELL.

OUR native land-our native vale

A long, and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And.Cheviot's mountains blue !

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

And streams renowned in song ! Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads,

Our hearts have loved so long !

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes

Where thyme and harebells grow! Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes

O’erhung with birk and sloe !

The battle mound-the Border tower,

That Scotia's annals tell--
The martyr's grave, the lover's bower--

To each, to all-farewell.

Home of our hearts !-our fathers' home!-

Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee.

We seek a wild and distant shore,

Beyond the Atlantic main ;-
We leave thee, to return no more,

Or view thy cliffs again.

But may dishonour blight our fame,

And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,

Green island of our sires !

Our native land-our native vale

A long, and last adieu !
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

PRINGLE

THE DRUM.

YONDER is a little drum hanging on the wall;
Dusty wreaths and tattered flags round about it fall.
A shepherd youth, on Cheviot's hills, watched the sheep

whose skin A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its

din.

Oh, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure

spread; And pleasant 'tis among its heath to make your summer

bed; And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its

vales, And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales. And thus hath felt the shepherd-boy whilst tending of his

fold; Nor thought there was, in all the world, a spot like

Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day ; but change with time will

come, And he--(alas for him the day !) he heard the little drum! “Follow,” said the drummer-boy,“ would you live in story! For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory!" “Rub-a-dub!” and “rub-a-dub!” the drummer beats awayThe shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er Cheviot wildly stray!

On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying ; Around him many a parching tongue for “Water !” faintly

crying: Oh, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure

spread, Or lying’mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed ! Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales, Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain

gales !

At length upon his wearied eyes the mists of slumber come, And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum! “Take arms ! take arms !” his leader cries; “the hated fue

man's nigh!” Guns loudly roar, steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall

to die. The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: “Oh, water !

give me some ! “My voice might reach a friendly ear, but for that little

drum !”

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his

way, And many a one, by“ glory” lured, did curse the drum that

day. “Rub-a-dub!” and “rub-a-dub!” the drummer beat aloudThe shepherd died ! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his

shroud. And this is “glory ?” — Yes ; and still will man the tempter

follow, Nor learn that Glory, like its Drum, is but a sound and hollow !

Douglas JERROLD'S Mayazine.

HUMILITY.

The bird that soars on highest wing,

Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that doth most sweetly sing,

Sings in the shade when all things rest; --In lark and nightingale we see What honour hath humility.

When Mary chose the “better part,"

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently-opened heart

Was made for God's own temple meet; --- Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,

In deepest adoration bends;
The weight of glory bows him down,

Then most when most his soul ascends;
- Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.

J. MONTGOMERY.

WINTER AND SPRING.

“ADIEU ! adieu !” Father Winter said

To the world, when about to quit it; With his old white wig half off his head,

As if never made to fit it.
“Adieu ! I'm off to the rocks and caves,

To leave all here behind me;
Or, perhaps, I'll sink in the northern waves,

So deep that none can find me.”

“Good luck! good luck to your hoary locks!”

Said the gay young Spring, advancing; “ Go take your nap ʼmid the caves and rocks,

While I o'er the earth am dancing.

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