BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.

BY BURNS.

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's pow'r-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?

Wha sae base as be a slave ?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ?
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!-

Let us do or die!

TO A WATER FOWL.

BY BRYANT.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocky billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coastThe desert and illimitable air

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer-home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way, that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.
BY BRYANT.

Он deem not they are blessed alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The

The light of smiles shall fill again
eyes that overflow with tears;
hours of woe and pain,
Are promises of happier years.

And weary

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night,
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

For God has marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all His children suffer here.

OLD AGE.

BY SOUTHEY.

"You are old, father William," the young man cried, “The few locks that are left you are grey;

You are hale, father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason, I

pray?

"In the days of my youth," father William replied, I remembered that youth would fly fast;

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And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray ?"

"In the days of my youth," father William replied, "I remembered that youth would not last;

I thought on the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past.”

"You are old, father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray?

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remembered my God,
And He hath not forgotten my age."

то A BEE.

BY SOUTHEY.

THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting place
Had risen up, and left her trace

On the meadow, with dew so gray,

Saw I thee, thou busy, busy bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower,

When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,

I heard thee, thou busy, busy bee!

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in keeping and hoarding is spent,
What thy winter will never enjoy ;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy bee!
What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil;
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy bee!

RURAL LIFE.

BY POPE.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.