Rode as its guard in armor bright,
To bless their Saviour's tomb.

As on the scenery of Spain

They bent a traveller's eye,

Forth came, in bold and glorious train, Her flower of chivalry.

Led by Alphonso 'gainst the Moor,
They came in proud array,
And set their serried phalanx sure
To bide the battle-fray.

"God save ye now, ye gallant band

Of Scottish warriors true; Good service for the Holy Land Ye on this field may do."

So with the cavalry of Spain

In brother's grasp they closed,

And the grim Saracen in vain

Their blended might opposed;
But Douglas, with his falcon-glance,
O'erlooking crest and spear,

Saw brave St. Clair with broken lance,—
That friend from childhood dear.

He saw him by a thousand foes
Opprest and overborne,

And high the blast of rescue rose

From his good bugle-horn;

And, reckless of the Moorish spears,

In bristling ranks around,

His monarch's heart, oft steeped in tears,
He from his neck unbound,

And flung it toward the battle front,
And cried, with panting breath,

"Pass first, my liege, as thou wert wont,―

I follow thee to death."

Stern Osmyn's sword was dire that day,

And keen the Moorish dart,

And there Earl Douglas bleeding lay

Beside the Bruce's heart.

Embalmed with Scotland's flowing tears,

That peerless champion fell,

And still the lyre, to future years,

His glorious deeds shall tell.

The "good Lord James," that honored name,

Each Scottish babe shall call,

And all who love the Bruce's fame

Deplore the Douglas' fall.

WINTER.

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou com'st
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing flowret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passeth by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.

She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest-shouting.

Man should rest

Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shattered cordage, and restore
Its riven sails-so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,

Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired

By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,

And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save.

The ruddy boy

Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport,
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star

Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth,
And throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Ask of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven

To "bless the lad." The timid infant learns

Better to love its sire-and longer sits

Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip

Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath never spoken.

Come thou to life's feast
With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blast
The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul:
And when the last drop of its cup is drained—
Arising with a song of praise-go up
To the eternal banquet.

FAREWELL TO AN ANCIENT CHURCH.

FAREWELL, thou consecrated dome,

Whence prayer and chant and anthem rose,
Whose walls have given meek Hope a home,
And tearful Penitence, repose.

Here gathered round their shepherd-guide,
A flock, to the Redeemer dear,

While praise in full, responsive tide,

Soared heavenward, to its native sphere.

Here at this altar's hallowed side,

Oft was the bond of deathless love

Sealed by the kneeling, trembling bride-
Where is that bride? Perchance above.

The mother here her infant drew,
Unscathed by sin or sorrow's rod,
To win the pure, baptismal dew-

Where is that mother? Ask of God.