SCOTLAND.

AND of my fathers!--though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear; Nor scaly palm her fingered scions shoot; Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit; Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ;Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free! Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs, With unatonèd blood of Gambia's sons: No drooping slave, with spirit bowed to toil, Grows, like the weed, seif-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and bartered, as the flock he feeds. Free as the lark that carols o'er his head, At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And, whistling loud, directs the mining share: Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquered might. JOHN LEYDEN.

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,

A living wall, a human wood;
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their fatherland,

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke;
Marshalled once more at freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflct burned within;
The battle trembled to begin:

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground
Point for assault was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed ;
That line 't were suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet.
How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their homes the haunts of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread,
With clanking chains. above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the invader's power!
All Switzerland is in the field-
She will not fly; she cannot yield;
She must not fall! her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,

And felt as if 't were a secret known
That one should turn the scale alone,
While each unto himself was he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 't was no sooner thought than done-
The field was in a moment won!
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp ;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried;
Their keen points crossed from side to side⚫
He bowed among them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly— "Make way for liberty!" they cry,

And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic seized them all.
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free-
Thus death made way for liberty.

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

For Teutons brave, inured by toil,
Protect their country's holy soil.

Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

The heart may break in agony,
Yet Frenchmen thou shalt never be.
In water rich is Rhine; thy flood,
Germania, rich in heroes' blood.

Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

When heavenward ascends the eye,
Our heroes' ghosts look down from high;
We swear to guard our dear bequest,
And shield it with the German breast.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
As long as German blood still glows,
The German sword strikes mighty blows,
And German marksmen take their stand,
No foe shall tread our native land.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
We take the pledge. The stream runs by;
Our banners proud, are wafting high.
On for the Rhine, the German Rhine!
We all die for our native Rhine.
Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE.

H! give me back that royal dream
My fancy wrought,

When I have seen your sunny eyes
Grow moist with thought;

And fondly hoped, dear love, your heart from mine

Its spell had caught;

And laid me down to dream that dream divine,

But true, methought,

U how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought.

To learn to love sweet nature more

For your sweet sake,

To watch with you-dear friend, with you!—

Its wonders break;

The sparkling spring in that bright face to see
Its mirror make-

On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing
By linn and lake;

And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake!

To wake the old weird world that sieeps In Irish fore;

The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla shore;

Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds
That shine and soar;

Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows
That Grattan swore;

The songs that once our own dear Davis sung-ah me! to sing no more.

And all those proud old victor-fields
We thrill to name,

Whose memories are the stars that light

Long nights of shame;

The Cairn, the Dan, the Rath, the Power, the Keep, That still proclaim

In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire's fame;

Oh! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have loved the same.

Yet ah! how truer, tenderer still
Methought did seem

That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home
By Dodder's stream.

The morning smile, that grew a fixed star
With love-lit beam,

The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far
And shining stream

Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream.

For still to me, dear friend, dear love,
Or both dear wife,

Your image comes with serious thoughts,
But tender, rife;

No idle plaything to caress or chide
In sport or strife,

But my best chosen friend, companion, guide,

To walk through life,

Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife.

H

SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.

THE PILGRIMS.

'OW slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom-then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed-or reels Half wrecked, through gulfs profound.

-Moons, wax and wane. But still that lonely traveler treads the deep.I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone. And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds.— They land!-They land!—not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies.-Forth they come From their long prison- hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness-men of hoary hair, And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave,

Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.-
Bleak nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests and unyielding earth,

And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow.-What could lure their steps
To this dreary desert?-Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands.-

And can ye deem it strange
That from their planting such a branch should bloom
As nations envy.-Would a germ, embalmed
With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root

Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again?
Hid by its veil of waters from the hand
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth
In giant strength.-

Its early clusters crushed
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host
A draught of deadly wine. O, ye who boast
In your free veins the blood of sires like these,
Lose not their lineaments! Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart-or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue-or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth's beach-and on that rock
Kneel in their foot prints, and renew the vow
They breathed to God.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother-may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken;
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary ;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night

No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever.

ETHELIN ELIOT BEERS.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner trailed in dust
Is now their martial shroud—
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms by battle gashed

Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are passed-

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain

Came down the serried foeWho heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death.

Full many a mother's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dead fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil-
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky

Shines sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave!
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

THEODORE O'HARA