"Halt !"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!" out blazed the rifle-blast.

;

It shivered the window, pane and sash
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it feel from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this grey old head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word :
"Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on !" he said.
All day long through Frederick-street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier,

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

BOADICEA. (Cowper.)

WHEN the British warrior-queen, bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods,
Sage, beneath a spreading oak, sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke, full of rage and full of grief.
"Princess! if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word in the blood that she has spilt ;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground--hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
-Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame!

Then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command:
Regions Cæsar never knew, thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they !

Such the Bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow;
Rushed to battle, fought, and died-dying, hurled them at the foe!
"Ruffians! pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestowed; shame and ruin wait for you!"

DEATH OF DE BOUNE.-(Scott.)

OH! gay, yet fearful to behold,-flashing with steel, and rough with gold, and bristled o'er with bills and spears, with plumes and pennons waving fair,—was that bright battle-front! for there rode England's King and peers: and who, that saw that Monarch ride, his kingdom battled by his side, could then his direful doom foretell! Fair was his seat in knightly selle, and in his sprightly eye was set some spark of the Plantagenet. Though light and wandering was his glance, it flashed at sight of shield and lance. "Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine, yon knight who marshals thus their line?" "The tokens on his helmet tell the Bruce, my Liege; I know him well." And shall the audacious traitor brave the presence where our banners wave ?" So please my Liege," said Argentine, "were he but horsed on steed like mine, to give him fair and knightly chance, I would adventure forth my lance." "In battle-day," the King replied, “nice tourney rules are set aside. Still must the rebel dare our wrath? Set on him-sweep him from our path!" And, at King Edward's signal, soon dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. He spurred his steed, he couched his lance, and darted on the

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Bruce at once. As motionless as rocks, that bide the wrath of the advancing tide, the Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high, and dazzled was each gazing eye. The heart had hardly time to think, the eyelid scarce had time to wink, while on the King, like flash of flame, spurred to full speed the war-horse came! The partridge may the falcon mock, if that slight palfrey stand the shock! But, swerving from the knight's career, just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear. Onward the baffled warrior bore his coursebut soon his course was o'er! High in his stirrups stood the King, and gave his battle-axe the swing. Right on De Boune the while he passed, fell that stern dint-the first-the last!-Such strength upon the blow was put, the helmet crashed like hazel-nut; the axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, was shivered to the gauntlet grasp. Springs from the blow the startled horse-drops to the plain the lifeless corse! First of that fatal field, how soon, how sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

THE INCHCAPE BELL.-(Southey.)

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be; her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of shock, the waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the Inchcape Bell. The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothok had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; on a buoy, in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds screamed

as they wheeled around, and there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. His eye was on the Inchcape float: quoth he, My men, put out the boat, and row me to the Inchcape Rock; I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok!" The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, and to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, the bubbles rose and burst around; quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the rock won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, he scoured the seas for many a day; and now, grown rich with plundered store, he steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? for yonder methinks should be the shore!" "Now where we are I cannot tell, but I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock-" O Fate! it is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, he cursed himself in his despair; the waves rush in on every side, the ship is sinking beneath the tide. But ever in his dying fear one dreadful sound could the Rover hear: a sound as if with the Inchcape Bell the fiends below were ringing his knell.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.-(H. G. Bell.)

I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,

I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,

And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow passed,

And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,

In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please ;
And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,
That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than
theirs-

And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,

Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line :
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,

And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

:

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry But fairer far than all the rest who bask on Fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond deep love of oneThe hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun, They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak. Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its flowers? The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes

Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise.

No marvel that the lady wept there was no land on earth

She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth;
It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends--
It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends-
The land where her dead husband slept-the land where she had known
The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne;
No marvel that the lady wept-it was the land of France-

The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance!

The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;

The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark!

One gaze again-one long last gaze-" Adieu, fair France, to thee!" The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea!

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds,
That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her cheek-her smile was sadder now;
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;

The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not wield.
She thought of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's brief day,