NOVEMBER 30.

[St Andrew's Day.]

O SCOTIA, my dear, my native soil,

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much lov'd isle.

O Thou who poured the patriotic tide

That streams through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!), O never, never Scotia's realm desert;

But still the patriot and the patriot bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

ROBERT BUrns.

337

DECEMBER 1.

TERMINUS.

It is time to be old,

To take in sail :

The god of bounds,

Who sets to seas a shore,

Came to me in his fatal rounds,

And said: "No more!

No farther spread

Thy broad, ambitious branches, and thy root.

Fancy departs: no more invent,

Contract thy firmament

To compass of a tent.

There's not enough for this and that,

Make thy option which of two;

Economise the failing river,

Not the less revere the Giver,
Leave the many ånd hold the few.

Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary

foot;

Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath

The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat, and nerveless reins,—

Y

Amid the Muses left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb."
As the bird trims her to the gale,

I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime :
"Lowly faithful, banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near,
every wave is charmed."

And

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

DECEMBER 2.

THE SEASONS.

THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields: the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year :
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks,
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales,
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled,
Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing,
Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore,
And humblest nature with Thy northern blast.
JAMES THOMSON.

DECEMBER 3.

PII ORANT TACITE.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of Thine
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
E'en more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek by day some glade unknown,
All light and silence like Thy throne,
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of Thy wondrous name.

I'll read Thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track :
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through!

There's nothing bright above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of Thy deity!

There's nothing dark below, above,
But in its gloom I trace Thy love ;
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

THOMAS MOore.

DECEMBER 4.

HYMNE DE L'ENFANT À SON RÉVEIL.

FATHER, to whom my father calls!

Thou, whom upon our knees we greet:
Whose name, so terrible and sweet,
My mother's gentle soul appals;

They say the burning sun, O Lord,
Is but the plaything of Thy might;
That, poised beneath Thy feet, its light,
As from a burnished lamp, is poured.

They say 'tis Thou that orderest

The small birds in the fields to live,
And Thou the little child dost give
That simple soul that knows Thee best.
Grant to the sick recovery;

And to the needy beggar, bread,
The orphan, where to lay his head,

And to the prisoner, liberty.

Full may my father's quiver be,

Who Thee, great Lord, does fear and bless;
To me grant wisdom, happiness,

And thus my mother joy in me.

Let me, though small, be free from guile,
As in the Fane that child of Thine,
Whose image o'er my bed does shine,

And ev'ry morn I see his smile.

Within my soul Thy Justice place,
And on my lips be Truth, that so
With fear and gentleness may grow

Within my heart Thy word, Thy grace.

ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. (Trs. Editors.)