"Thrice vanquished on the battle

plain,

Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en,

A hunted wanderer on the wild,
On foreign shores a man exiled,
Disowned, deserted, and distressed,—
I bless thee, and thou shalt be
blessed!

Blessed in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield.
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Blessed in thy sceptre and thy
sword,

De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord,

Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy name!

In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a
song!

The Power, whose dictates swell my breast,

Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!"

SCOTT.

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR

THE king was on his throne,

The satraps thronged the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deemed divine, Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless heathen's wine!

In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man;-

A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice: All bloodless waxed his look, And tremulous his voice.