And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which the burgesses voted, by common consent

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

Robert Browning.

* 142

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented; the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

'mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;— Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar ?”

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !"

The bride kissed the the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine and he threw down the cup:
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar;
Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;-
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “Twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar ! "

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood

near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur, They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea;

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

.143.

Walter Scott.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie

dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread,

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the

gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours.

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer

glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty

stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the

plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance

late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side,

In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast

the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of

ours,

So gentle, and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William C. Bryant.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that!
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man 's the gowd for a' that!

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that,

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that!

A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he manna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,—
As come it will for a' that,-

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that!
For a' that, and a' that!

It's comin' yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that!

Stern daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring and reprove;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth;
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
Who do thy work, and know it not

O, if through confidence misplaced,

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power around them cast.