Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy

hair;

And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook,

As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish

tongue,

That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was

sung;

When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout

below,

Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away

the foe.

A while that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride,

And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the

right,

And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of

sight.

Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

And

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,

And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly towards the north.

Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight. would fail,

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;
For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely

beat,

And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the

heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,

A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,

Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave.

But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horseman

ride;

Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side.

His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with loosened rein,

There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon

the mane,

He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill,

God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I

hear

A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek-but not of

fear.

For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak: "I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with

thee."

Charles Swain.

Born 1803.

THE VOICE OF THE MORNING.

THE Voice of the morning is calling to childhood,

From streamlet, and valley, and mountain it calls, And Mary, the loveliest nymph of the wild wood, Is crossing the brook where the mill water falls. Oh! lovely is Mary, her face like a vision

Once seen leaves a charm that will ever endure ; From her glance and her smile there beams something elysian :

She has but one failing-sweet Mary is poor.

Her bosom is white as the hawthorn, and sweeter,
Her form light and lovesome, as maiden's should be;
Her foot like a fairy's—yet softer and fleeter—

Oh! Mary, the morn hath no lily like thee.
But narrow and low hangs the roof of her dwelling,
Her home it is humble, her birth is obscure;
And though in all beauty and sweetness excelling,
She wanders neglected-for Mary is poor.

Yet, oh! to her heart mother Nature hath given
The kindest affections that mortal can know ;
She loves every star that sheds radiance in heaven,

She worships the flowers as God's image below.

Ah! sad 'tis to think that a being resembling

The fairest in beauty, such lot should endure But the dews that like tears on the lilies are trembling, Are types but of Mary-for Mary is poor.

Sir Walter Scott.

Born 1771. Died 1832.

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.*

FROM MARMION.

Ar length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And plumèd crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;

*The battle of Flodden was fought between the English, commanded by Earl Surrey, and the Scots, commanded by their King, James the Fourth, in 1513. The Scots were defeated, with the loss of from eight to ten thousand men. The English loss was also very great.