Nations shall not quarrel then,

To prove which is the stronger,
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake-

Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming :
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed

In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,

And flourish all the stronger,
And Charity shall trim her lamp ;-

Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming :
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,

The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger;
'Twill be strong enough one day ;-

Wait a little longer.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.-Southey. Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express ?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies

The composure of settled distress.
No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;

Nor for raiment nor food doth she care :
Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak
On that withered breast, and her weather-worn cheek

Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the maniac hath been ;
The Traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,

As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life :
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,

That she was too good for his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door ;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,

They listened to hear the wind roar. “'Tis pleasant,” cried one,“ seated by the fireside,

To hear the wind whistle without.” “What a night for the Abbey !” his comrade replied, “Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,

Who should wander the ruins about. “I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear,

For this wind might awaken the dead !” “ I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,

“ That Mary would venture there now." “ Then wager, and lose !” with a sneer he replied, “I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

And faint if she saw a white cow."

“Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?”

His companion exclaimed with a smile “I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough

From the elder that grows in the aisle.”
With fearless good humour did Mary comply,

And her way to the Abbey she bent ;
The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high ;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,

She shivered with cold as she went.
O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,

Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gateway she entered-she felt not afraid ;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade

Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast

Howled dismally round the old pile ;
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,

And hastily gathered the bough; When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear, She paused, and she listened intently to hear,

And her heart panted painfully now. The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,

She listened-nought else could she hear,
The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,

She crept to conceal herself there :
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,

And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary.could feel her heart-blood curdle cold,

Again the rough wind hurried by,-
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ;

She fell—and expected to die. “Curse the hat !” he exclaims. “Nay, come on till

we hide .
The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast through the Abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,

She gazed in her terror around; Then her limbs could support their faint burden no

more, But, exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,

Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,

For a moment the hat met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For what a cold horror then thrilled through her heart,

When the nanie of her Richard she knew! -
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by,

His gibbet is now to be seen ;
His irons you still from the road may espy;
The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh

Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE
BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.—Burns.

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

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Chains and slavery!

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,
Free-man stand, or free-man 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 !

LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE.Wordsworth.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray :

And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,

The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wild moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!