And bless Him that it was so! It was free!-
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!—
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun!

How happy was it then! I loved

Its very storms! yes, Emma, I have sat

In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think, I had no master save his own!
You know the jutting cliff round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two a-breast to pass! O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust, followed gust, more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there-the thought that mine was
free

Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

LOQUACITY.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. ACT I. SCENE I.

"Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search."

FROM INDIA.-(W. C. Bennett.)

"O come you from the Indies? and, soldier, can you tell

Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well?

O, soldier, say my son is safe; for nothing else I

care,

And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer."

"O, I've come from the Indies--I've just come from the war;

And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they

are.

From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well,

And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell."

"And do you know my Robert now? O tell me, tell me true,

O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said

to you:

His very words-my own boy's words-O tell me every one!

You little know how dear to his old mother is my son."

"Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;

In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his

share;

Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball,

And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all."

"O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,—

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to

spare;

O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away!

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?"

"Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done;

In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I

say,

And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."

"Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue. O husband, that you knew

How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through,

All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!

But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said."

"He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame.

We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same;

For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune:

But there his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon."

"O is he really coming home, and shall I really

see

My boy again, my own boy, home; and when, when will it be?

Did you say soon?"—" Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here."

"O Robert, my own blessed boy!"-"O mothermother dear!"

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.-(J. G. Whittier.)

Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower
Have heard your sweetest strain !

Dear to the lowland reaper,

And plaided mountaineer,-
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear ;—
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music

The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept ;
Round and round the jungle serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.

"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,--Pray to-day!" the soldier said; "To-morrow, death's between us

And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing

Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground:
"Dinna, ye hear it ?-dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true;
As her mother's cradle crowning
The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,-
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,—
She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell's call :
"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,—
The grandest o' them all."

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;

Faint and far beyond the Goomtee

Rose and fell the piper's blast!