PART I.-HISTORICAL.

THE LAY OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE.

HE gray hill and the purple heath

Are round me as I stand;

The torrent hoar doth sternly roar,

The lake lies calm and grand;

The altars of the living rock

'Neath yon blue skies are bare,

And a thousand mountain-voices mock

Mine accents on the air.

O land most lovely and beloved,—
Whether in morn's bright hues,

Or in the veil, so soft, so pale,

Woven by twilight dews,

God's bounty pours from sun and cloud
Beauty on shore and wave,-

I lift my hands, I cry aloud,

Man shall not make thee slave!

Ye everlasting witnesses,—

Most eloquent, though dumb,

Sky, shore, and seas, light, mist, and breeze,
Receive me, when I come!

How could I, in this holy place,

Stand with unshamed brow,
How look on earth's accusing face,
If I forget my vow?

Not few nor slight his burdens are
Who gives himself to stand
Steadfast and sleepless as a star,
Watching his fatherland;
Strong must his will be, and serene,
His spirit pure and bright,
His conscience vigilant and keen,

His arm an arm of might.

From the closed temple of his heart,
Sealed as a sacred spring,

Self must he spurn, and set apart
As an unholy thing;

Misconstrued where he loves the best,
Where most he hopes, betrayed,

The quenchless watchfire in his breast Must neither fail nor fade.

And his shall be a holier meed
Than earthly lips may tell ;—
Not in the end, but in the deed,
Doth truest honour dwell.
His land is one vast monument,
Bearing the record high

Of a spirit with itself content,
And a name that cannot die!

For this, with joyous heart I give
Fame, pleasure, love, and life;
Blest, for a cause so high, to live
In ceaseless, hopeless strife:

Bruce and the Spider.

For this to die, with sword in hand,
Oh, blest and honoured thrice!-
God, countrymen, and fatherland,
Accept the sacrifice!

Ballads from English History.

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

OR Scotland's and for freedom's right,
The Bruce his part has played,
In five successive fields of fight,

Been conquered, and dismayed:
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting place
For him who claimed a throne;

His canopy, devoid of grace;

The rude, rough beams alone;

The heather couch his only bed-

Yet well I ween had slumber fled

From couch of eider down!

Through darksome night till dawn of day,
Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam

Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed;

15

When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot;

And well the insect's toilsome lot

Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times the gossamery thread
The wary spider threw ;
In vain the filmy line was sped,

For powerless or untrue

Each aim appeared, and back recoiled,

The patient insect, six times foiled,

And yet unconquered still;

And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last!
The hero hailed the sign!

And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender, silken line;

Slight as it was, his spirit caught

The more than omen, for his thought,

The lesson well could trace,

Which even he "who runs may read,"

That Perseverance gains its meed,

And Patience wins the race.

BERNARD BARTON.