THE unearthly voices ceased, And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast, And it died on the side of the hill; But round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near, For it rung in the Lady's bower, And it rung in the Lady's ear; She raised her stately head, And her heart throbbed high with pride, —

"Your mountains shall bend, And your streams shall ascend, Ere

Margaret be our foeman's bride." SIR WALTER SCOTT: Lay of Last Minstrel,

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS

ARMY.

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power:
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?

Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or die!
BURNS.

CROMWELL AND KING CHARLES.

'Tis maduess to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valor climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old,
Into another mould.

What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?

And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtile fears with hope,

Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. —

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;-
Their shots along the deep slowly
boom:-

Then ceased- and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom. -

Outspoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:-
So peace instead of death let us
bring.

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and up-

roar,

Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died, -
With the gallant good Riou:
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er
their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

CAMPBELL.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand
years

The battle and the breeze:

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven;

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;

For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be

That mountain floods should thunder as before,

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful voice be heard by thee!