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And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips—“The foe! they come,

they come !" And wild and high the “ Cameron's gathering” roseThe war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes How in the noon of nigkt that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years ;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansmen's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves
Over the unreturning brave-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
The morn the marshalling of arms; the day
Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe—in one red burial blent !

Byror

THE BRIDGE.

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behi the dark church-tower.

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I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon
Among the long black rafters
The

wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away ;
As sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom,

O'er the ocean wild and wide !
For my heart was hot and restless,
And
my

life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear,
But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea ;
And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadows over me.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

147

Yet, whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odour of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumber'd men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro;
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow !
And for ever and for ever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes ;
The moon and its broken reflection,

And its shadows shall appear
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

Longfellow.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

TO BE, or not to be?—that is the question ;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die—to sleep,
No more ! and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To dieto sleep-
To sleep ?—perchance to dream-ay, there's the rub!
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.—There's the respect
That kes calamity of so long life:

148

THE SPECTRE PIG.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns !-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus, conscience makes cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action !

Shakespere

THE SPECTRE PIG.

It was the stalwart butcher man

That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle pig must die,

And sealed it with a vow.
And oh! it was the gentle pig

Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah ! it was the cruel knife

His little heart that found.
They took him there, those wicked men,

They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,

And through his heels a thong.
And round and round an oaken beam

A hempen cord they flung,
And like a mighty pendulum

All solemnly he swung.

THE SPECTRE PIG.

149

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,

And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,

Thou sanguinary one.
For if his sprite should walk by night,

It better were for thee
That thou wert mouldering in the ground,

Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then

That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath-

He did not cara a pin.
It was the butcher's youngest son-

His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief

He wiped his little eyes.
All young and ignorant was he,

But innocent and mild,
And in his soft simplicity

Out spoke the tender child :
“Oh ! father, father, list to me :

The pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels

And fed him with a stick."
It was the naughty butcher then

That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing chili,

And bid him not to cry.
“Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,

That thou should'st weep and wail & Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,

And thou shalt have his tail.”

It was the butcher's daughter then,

So slender and so fair,
That sobbed as if her heart would break,

And tore her yellow hair.

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