He placed his hand in Charles's hand,-loud shouted all the throng; But tears were in King Charles's eyes-the grip of Rou was strong. "Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;" Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert, Rou. He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring: The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne, and backward falls the king! Loud laugh the joyous Norman men-pale stare the Franks aghast ; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: “I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou SECTION II.-DOMESTIC AND NATIONAL. I.-LOCH-NA-GARR. AWAY ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered: Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,— "Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden? Victory crowned not your fall with applause : Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr. Years have rolled on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. II.-AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. ALL hail! thou noble land, to our shore; For thou, with magic might, The genius of our clime, Though ages long have passed O'er untravelled seas to roam,— And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame While the language free and bold, How the vault of Heaven rung, When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Our joint communion breaking with the sun; Yet still, from either beach, III.-GREAT BRITAIN TO AMERICA. (TUPPER.) Martin Farquhar Tupper, author of "Proverbial Philosophy," was born in London in 1811. His prose works are numerous and popular; his poetry consists of short pieces. Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher, A chip of heart of oak, That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir I know your heart, an open heart, And shrewd to scheme a likely plan, I tell you, Brother Jonathan, There may be jealousies and strife, For men have selfish ends, But petty quarrels ginger life, And help to season friends; And pundits who, with solemn scan, That brothers always fight. Two fledgeling sparrows in one nest Then how should eaglets meekly rest, The children of the storm? |