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And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!' Like a bridegroom from his room,

Came the hero from his prison,

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die; There was color in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud,
But looked upon the heavens
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through:
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee,

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace

Beneath the gallows-tree.

Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away;

For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

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Had ever ceased to pray

For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away

From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen

And chiefs of ancient names,
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James.
And died at Killiecrankie Pass,
With the glory of the Græmes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier
All of the olden time!

He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,

But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;

And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,

And pointed to his bonnet blue,

That bore the white cockade:

Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

At length the news ran through the land, -
The Prince had come again!

That night the fiery cross was sped

O'er mountain and through glen;

And our old baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,

And rode away across the hills

To Charlie and his men,

With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!

He was the first that bent the knee
When the Standard waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,

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FROM BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

OPEN wide the vaults of Athol, where the bones of heroes rest;
Open wide the hallowed portals to receive another guest!

Last of Scots, and last of freemen, last of all that dauntless race
Who would rather die unsullied than outlive the land's disgrace! -
O thou lion-hearted warrior! reck not of the aftertime;
Honor may be deemed dishonor, loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes of the noble and the true;

Hands that never failed their country, hearts that never baseness knew.

Sleep!-and till the latest trumpet wakes the dead from earth and

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Scotland shall not boast a braver chieftain than our own Dundee !

751

MASSIMO TAPARELLI AZEGLIO.

AZEGLIO, MASSIMO TAPARELLI, MARCHESE D', Italian statesman and author, was born at Turin, October 24, 1798, and died there, January 15, 1866. In 1830, Azeglio removed to Milan, where he married the daughter of the poet and novelist, Alessandro Manzoni, which step decided his course toward a literary career interspersed with politics. A novel entitled "Ettore Fieramosca" was published in 1833, and this was followed by "Niccolo di Lapi" in 1841. His "Degli Ultimi Casi di Romagna," treating of the last occurrences in the Romagna, was written before Pope Gregory XVI.'s death, in 1846. In 1848, his work on the "Austrian Assassination in Lombardy" was published. He held the office of Premier from May 11, 1844, to October 20, 1852, when Count Cavour succeeded him.

RECOLLECTIONS.

My dear parents' foremost wish was to make a man of me. They knew that education must begin with the dawn of life; that it must grow with the growth and strengthen with the strength; that the germ of the future man lies in the first impression of childhood; and that adulation and incitement to pride and vanity, though they may be a mistaken form of parental affection, are in fact the worst of lessons for the child, and the most baneful in their results. They also knew well that the mind of a youth is a tablet from which no line once graven can ever after be effaced. . . .

In a word, the aim of my parents was to prepare me for the warfare of life, such as it really becomes in after years. And this useful training consists mainly in acquiring a habit of selfsacrifice, and in learning how to suffer.

Verily, if the excess of affection which leads parents to spoil their children were not in itself a touching excuse, what bitter reproaches might fall on those parents who enervate their sons by a childhood of luxury and indulgence, those who, knowing the while that they must one day have to endure both burning heat and biting frost, knowing also that, in after life, they

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