From the hideous stain, ne'er shown till now,

The blood of his native land!

With writhing self-abasement
He had heard the Scotsman swear
That, soul and body to purify,
No penance would he spare-
That so long as a tyrant foeman

With his heel on Scotland trod,

He would ne'er draw sword except to fight
For his country and his God!
"Find him at once!" cried Warrenne;
"Whether as friend or foe,

'Tis a man too good for wasting,

He is free to stay or go;
Fight in our ranks or at them,
For or against his land,
I would not let such a hero slip

Without a grasp o' the hand."

Boot and spur and saddle,
Over the moss and fen,
After the unwashed giant,
Varlets and gentlemen!
Late in the night we hunted

But the game had stol'n away

And ne'er has he grasped an English hand
In friendship since that day.

"No news of him?" Well, somewhat-
There were tidings of him afloat;
The first, perhaps, worth nothing-
He had cut knave Comyn's throat;

A very good deed (to deny it,

At my time of life, what use?) He is now the old King of Scotland, And they call him Robert Bruce.

THE WEAVER.

A weaver sat by the side of his loom

A-flinging the shuttle fast,

And a thread that would last till the hour of doom

Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun,
And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning upbraids from the sun,
All jeweled o'er with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich soft web were bedded;

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Not yet were Time's feet leaded.

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought hath a wearisome spell.

And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray.

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain

Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Tho' the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone,

And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark, and still darker, and darker grew

Each newly woven thread,

And some were of a death-mocking hue,

And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,

Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears,

And the web was broken, and poor, and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied
A-weaving those life-cords in.

And as he wove, and weeping still wove,

A tempter stole him nigh;

And with glowing words he to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye-

He upward turned his eye to heaven,

And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head,

And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And after, I saw, in a robe of light,

The weaver in the sky;

The angels' wings were not more bright,

And the stars grew pale, it nigh.

And I saw mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had sprung,

More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,

And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were the foot-prints left by care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh

Was left a rich perfume,

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.

And then I prayed: "When my last work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,

Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one
That I bear with me to heaven."

THE PASTOR'S REVERIE.

From Harper's Magazine.

The pastor sits in his easy chair,

With the Bible upon his knee.

From gold to purple the clouds in the west
Are changing momently;

The shadows lie in the valleys below,

And hide in the curtain's fold,

And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old."

"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are;

No day that is gone was shadowless,

No night was without its star;

But mingled bitter and sweet hath been

The portion of his cup:

"The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, "In love hath bound us up."

Fleet flies his thought over many a field

Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb; Young faces smile in his reverie

Of those that are young no more,
And voices are heard that only come
With the winds from a far-off shore.

He thinks of the day when first, with fear
And faltering lips, he stood

To speak in the sacred place the Word
To the waiting multitude;

He walks again to the house of God,

With the voice of joy and praise,

With many whose feet long time have pressed

Heaven's safe and blessed ways.

He enters again the homes of toil,
And joins in the homely chat;

He stands in the shop of the artisan,

He sits, where the Master sat,

At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor,

And who are the rich? Ask Him who keeps
The treasures that ever endure.

Once more the green and the grove resound
With the merry children's din;

He hears their shout at the Christmas tide,
When Santa Claus stalks in.

Once more he lists while the camp fire roars
On the distant mountain-side,
Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook
Where the fierce young troutlings hide.
And now he beholds the wedding train
To the altar slowly move,

And the solemn words are said that seal
The sacrament of love.

Anon at the font he meets once more
The tremulous youthful pair,

With a white-robed cherub crowing response
To the consecrating prayer.

By the couch of pain he kneels again;

Again the thin hand lies

Cold in his palm, while the last far look
Steals into the steadfast eyes;

And now the burden of hearts that break
Lies heavy upon his own-

The widow's woe and the orphan's cry,
And the desolate mother's moan.

So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad,
Are the days that are no more,

So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float
With the winds from a far-off shore.

For the pastor has learned what meaneth the Word
That is given him to keep-

"Rejoice with them that do rejoice, And weep with them that weep."

It is not in vain that he has trod

This lowly and toilsome way,
It is not in vain that he has wrought

In the vineyard all the day;

For the soul that gives is the soul that lives,

And bearing another's load

Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way,

And brighten the homeward road