And there was mounting in hot haste: the `steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they
come! they come !'

And wild and high the Cameron's gathering' rose!

The war-notes of Locheil which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard too have her Saxon foes.

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans-
man's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green
leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening, to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of
strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms-the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent

Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

THE OLD FAMILIAR STRAIN.

Makenzie.

SING me the old familiar strain

Which touched my heart in boyhood's years, Before its chords were jarred by pain, Before its hopes were dimmed by tears.

Time has fled fast since first I heard
Its music from those lips of thine;
But well remembered is each word,
So sing once more, oh Mary mine,
The old familiar strain.

Thine eyes have their soft radiance kept That won my heart in life's young spring, And o'er thy beauty Time hath swept, Gently with light and charmed wing. Unaltered is thy graceful form,

Thy trusting heart is still the same, Keeping those true affections warm, As when before I dreamt of fame, You sang me that old strain.

Yes, sing! as in those golden hours

When life, and love, and hope were young, When fancy strewed our path with flowersOh sing the strain that then you sung! Your voice may have a sadder tone, Than made sweet music in that time, Ere grief or trials we had known, When first you sang in youthful prime That old familiar strain.

Methinks that on thy placid brow,

So lightly touched by furrowing years, Since first we plighted love's fond vowThought's graver shadow now appears;

But yet if in thy very mirth

Remembrance of our dead will come, Strong ties yet bind thee to the earthSo breathe once more within our home The old familiar strain.

THE JOYS OF YOUTH.

Carpenter.

THE joys of youth, how soon, alas!
Their pleasant reign is o'er,
With childhood's happy days they pass,
Like them return no more;
The frolic and the little jest,

The laughter loud and gay,

The thrilling hearts, the hopes that bless'd,
All, all are passed away.

Estranged from all we loved, we live
Through after years of pain,
Oh! what is there we would not give
For childhood's hours again?

The friends of youth-that ceaseless band
Whose hearts seemed light and free,

Where are they now? alone I stand
Where they were wont to be;

And others now look coldly on,
To fill the vacant scene.

But all the kindred hearts are gone

They lived-loved-and have been.

I hear some stranger's voice repeat
Some well remembered strain,

And then-oh! would I then could meet
The friends of youth again.

The love of youth-when friends are gone,
And joys have passed away—
Like some deep stream still wanders on
Illumed by virtue's ray;

No passing grief, no transient care
Can check its firm career;

In youth the hearts that faithful were
Are still in age sincere.

'Tis love alone, when all we see
Breathes misery and pain,

That brings, though but in Memory,
The joys of youth again.

THE THREE SONS.

Moultrie.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mould;

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of head beyond his childish years.