"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lone ly, in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena!

before the wind

"Like a cloud

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!

Sink, oh Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all !

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, oh Father! is this evil world of

ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;

BARCLAY OF URY.

31

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in

our air!

FORGIVENESS.

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been
Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among
The green mounds of the village burial-place:
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meekened
face,

And cold hands folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,

Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,

Swept all my pride away, and trembling I for gave!

BARCLAY OF URY.2

Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving girl,

Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;

And, to all he saw and heard
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward; Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!"

But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud:
"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"

And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly;

Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,

Cried aloud: "God save us
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood,

With the brave Gustavus?'

"Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; "Put it up I pray thee:

Passive to his holy will,

Trust I in my Master still,

Even though he slay me.”

BARCLAY OF URY.

"Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed.”

Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.

"Woe's the day," he sadly said,
With a slowly-shaking head,
And a look of pity;
"Ury's honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!

"Speak the word, and, master mine,
As we charged on Tilly's line,
And his Walloon lancers,
Smiting through their midst we'll teach
Civil look and decent speech

To these boyish prancers!"

"Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end:

Quoth the Laird of Ury,

"Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

"Give me joy that in his name
1 can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?

"Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,

With few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,

33

Riding out from Aberdeen,

With bared heads to meet me.

"When each good wife, o'er and o'er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down.
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.

"Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friend's falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving:
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.

"Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light

Up the blackness streaking;

Knowing God's own time is best,
In a patient hope I rest

For the full day-breaking "

So the Laird of Ury said,

Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison,

Where, through iron grates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told

Of thy day of trial;

Every age on him, who strays
From its broad and beaten ways,
Pours its seven-fold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear

Angel comfortings can hear,