BANNOCKBURN At Bannockburn the English lay, But waited for the break o' day, 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, 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, And Nature, the old nurse, took Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, And read what is still unread And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times his heart beats wild Though at times he hears in his dreams And the rush of mountain streams And the mother at home says, "Hark! 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. -Johnson. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid 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! 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, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The eagle of the sea! |