But when they mark'd the seeming show
Of fresh, and fierce, and marshall'd foe,
The boldest broke array.-

O give their hapless prince his due!
In vain the royal Edward threw
His person 'mid the spears,

Cried, "Fight!" to terror and despair,
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair,

And cursed their caitiff fears!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

SONG.

THE spring-time is come in her beauty again,
And frisk the white lambkins on meadow and lea,
In the grove, with the merle, I carol my strain
To Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee.

More sweet are her lips than the roses new-born, And holy the love-light that blinks in her e'e, Fair, fair is her cheek, like the flush of the morn, When kissing in glory the stream of the Dee.

Oh! wavy and light are the ringlets of gold
On the amorous breeze of the eve flowing free
But how can I sing of the beauty untold

Of Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee.

Oh! light is her step as the faery's, I ween,

Her bosom is white as the foam of the sea, And a bonnier lassie ne'er tripp'd o'er the green Than Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee.

Her brow's like the lily, so lovely and white;
The music of streams on their way to the sea,
Now pausing in shadow, now rippling in light,

Is the voice of my Maggie, the Pride of the Dee.

Her love's in my being, and deep in my heart,
The life of my life is the light of her e'e,
And my spirit's devotion can never depart
From Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee.

THE FUNERAL.

THE clouds are up in the deep blue sky,
And the leaves in the sunshine wave,
While the loveliest maid of the valley is laid
In the grave-in the voiceless grave!

And far away through the welkin blue,

A rift in the cloud is riven

And the streets that are trod by the hosts of God Flash far on the cope of heaven.

One true heart beats on the earth no more,
In a bosom so kind and brave,

For the loveliest maid of the valley is laid
In the grave-in the voiceless grave !

I strike the harp of dolour and death,
And wake the sound of the tomb,
O'er the loamy mould on the curls of gold
And the blight of girlhood's bloom,

Fair are the hands that the thorns of earth

In the days of her anguish tore,

But the land was above of her heart's deep love, On the sand of the sinless shore !

But the sky was bright o'er the dear old earth,
And the blood was so warm and young;

All was holy and white in the glory-light,
And the songs that the angels sung.

To the rank red earth through the gate of death,
For the heart that so fain would stay,
For the gentle child was a pathway wild
To the morn of the endless day.

FROM "SONG TO DAVID."

GLORIOUS the sun in mid career;
Glorious the assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet's train:
Glorious the trumpet and alarm;

Glorious the Almighty's stretch'd-out arm;

Glorious the enraptured main :

Glorious the northern lights astream;
Glorious the song when God's the theme;

Glorious the thunder's roar :
Glorious hosannah from the den a;

Glorious the Catholic Amen;

Glorious the martyr's gore.

Glorious-more glorious is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,
By meekness called Thy Son :
Thou that stupendous truth believed;
And now the matchless deed's achieved
Determined, dared, and done.

ALEXANDER SMART.

GLENCOE.

[The tradition runs that the hereditary bard of the tribe took his seat on a rock which overhung the place of slaughter, and poured forth a long lament over his murdered brethren and his desolate home.-Lord Macaulay.]

FIENDS below, and angels o'er me,
List to my heart-rending wail!
Wherefore slept Eternal Vengeance
When the heart's blood of the Gael,
When the ruddy gore of heroes,

Of the free-born and the brave,
Dabbled with its mortal crimson

The hired dagger of the slave?
Woe, alas and death, MacIan,
Brood o'er Leven's sombre flood,
And the spirit of your father,

On yon dim rock, dripping blood,
Seems to beckon, gaunt and awful,
Red from the eternal shore,

His wail like troubled ocean groans-
"MacIan is no more!"

Never more, O righteous Lord,
When grapple Death heroic men,
Shall the slogan of MacDonald

Wake the thunder of the glen !
Never, when the Sassenach reiver
O'er the bourne of Time shall reel
'Fore the storm of bloody tartan
And the flash of Highland steel,
Shall thy great two-handed broadsword
Crash amid the battle din,

Son of sires who fought with Fingal,
Clove the helmets of Lochlinn;
For the phantom of your father,
Bending from the awful shore,

Is wailing through the hall of Cloudland"MacDonald is no more!"

Silent now the Vale of Weeping
Lies, a gaunt and gory tomb,
And the snow of desolation

Falls on the tremendous gloom :
Dark the mountains of Glencoe
Lift their rock arms to the sky,
They invoke the God of Vengeance,
They invoke the Sleepless Eye,
While the snow-flakes, cold and silent,
Grizzle o'er the mountain's head,
Redly melting in the gore pools

In the Valley of the Dead:
Brave chieftain of the clan MacDonald,
Thou art lying ghastly there,
And the snow is crisping rigid
In the silver of thy hair,