BANNOCKBURN

At Bannockburn the English lay,
The Scots they were na far away,

But waited for the break o' day,
That glinted in the east.

But soon the sun broke through the heath And lighted up the field o' death,

When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath

His heralds thus addressed:

"Lay the proud usurpers low;

Tyrants fall in every foe,

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!"— Burns.

FROM PIPPA PASSES

The year's at the Spring

And day's at the morn,
Morning's at seven :

The hillside's dew-pearled,

The lark's on the wing,

The snail's on the thorn,

God's in his heaven,

All's right with the world. - Browning.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ

It was fifty years ago

In the pleasant month of May,

In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,

Saying: "Here is a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said,
"Into regions yet untrod;

And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old nurse,

Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,

Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,

And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;

It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!"— Longfellow.

GOOD LIFE-LONG LIFE

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be,

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measure life may perfect be.

-Johnson.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. — Wolfe.

OLD IRONSIDES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;·

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And white were waves below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!