Was wreathed in sable smoke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Told England, from his mountain-throne 2. Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, Of sudden and portentous birth, Long looked the anxious squires; their eye 3. At length the freshening western blast And plumed' crests of chieftains brave, But naught distinct they see : 4. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : With Huntley, and with Home. 5. Far on the left, unseen the while, And with both hands the broadsword plied : 6. Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew The Border slogan rent the sky! Advanced, forced back,—now low, now high, As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 7. But, as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed: That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 8. The stubborn spearmen still made good Each stepping where his comrade stood, No thought was there of dastard flight;— Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, Till utter darkness closed her wing 9. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swollen and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through her currents dash To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Tradition, legend, tune, and song, Shall many an age that wail prolong: Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield! King James, King James V., son of James IV., of Scotland. He died in December, 1542, in the 31st year of his age, leaving the crown to his daughter the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. Mar' mi on, an English knight, valiant and wise, but unscrupulous, who fell upon the field of Flodden. Slo' gan, the war cry, or gathering word of a Highland clan in Scotland. LESSON LIX. AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE INTERMENT OF COL. E. D. BAKER. BY THOMAS STARR KING. Thomas Starr King, an American Unitarian Divine, was born in New York, 1824. He became in 1848 pastor of the church in Hollis street, Boston, and in 1860 sailed for San Francisco, where he assumed charge of the Unitarian church in that city. He had a high reputation as a lecturer, and published, among other works, The White Hills: Their Legends, Landscapes, and Poetry, 1859. He died in 1864. His loss was deeply felt, and looked upon as a public calamity, for, during his four years residence on the Pacific Coast he had so identified himself with its best interests, that scarcely one public institution or enterprise of philanthropy existed that did not feel it had lost a champion. THE HE story of our great friend's life has been eloquently told. We have borne him now to the home of the dead, to the cemetery which, after fit services of prayer, he devoted in a tender and thrilling speech, to its hallowed purposes. In that address, he said: "Within these grounds public reverence and gratitude shall build the tombs of warriors and statesmen * * * who have given all their lives and their best thoughts to their country." Could he forecast, seven years ago, any such fulfillment of those words as this hour reveals? He confessed the conviction before he went into the battle which bereaved us, that his last hour was near. Could any slight shadow of his destiny have been thrown across his path, as he stood here when these grounds were dedicated, and looked over slopes unfurrowed then by the plowshare of death? 2. His words were prophetic. Yes, warrior and statesman, wise in council, graceful and electric as few have been in speech, ardent and vigorous in debate, but nobler than for all these qualities by the devotion which prompted thee to give more than thy wisdom, more than thy energy and weight in the hall of senatorial discussion, more than the fervor of thy tongue and the fire of thy eagle eye in the great assemblies of the people-even the blood of thy indomitable heart-when thy country called with a cry of peri-we receive thee with tears and pride. We find thee dearer than when thou camest to speak to us in the full tide of life and vigor. Thy wounds through which thy life was poured are not "dumb mouths," but eloquent with the intense and perpetual appeal of thy soul. 3. We receive thee to "reverence and gratitude," as we lay thee gently to thy sleep; and we pledge to thee, not only a monument that shall hold thy name, but a memorial in the hearts of a grateful people, so long as the Pacific moans near thy resting-place, and a fame eminent among the heroes of the Republic so long as the mountains shall feed the Oregon! The poet tells us, in pathetic cadence, that the paths of glory lead but to the grave. But this is true only in the superficial sense. It is true that the famous and the obscure, the devoted and the ignoble, "alike await the inevitable hour." But the path of true glory does not end in the grave. It passes through it to larger opportunities of service. Do not believe or feel that we are burying Edward Baker. A great nature is a seed. "It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." It germinates thus in this world as well as in the other. 4. Was Warren buried when he fell on the field of a defeat, pierced through the brain, at the commencement of the Revolution, by a bullet that put the land in mourning? No; the monument that has been raised where his blood reddened the |