P the streets of Aberdeen,

U'

By the kirk and college green,
Rode the laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet with calm and stately mien
Up the streets of Aberdeen

Came he slowly riding;
And to all he saw and heard
Answering not the bitter word,

Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward:
Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! Through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!"

But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud:

"Marvel not, mine ancient friend-
Like beginning, like the end!"
Quoth the laird of Ury;

"Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

"Give me joy that in His name
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffered long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?

"Happier I, with loss of all-
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,

With few friends to greet meThan when reeve and squire were seen Riding out from Aberdeen

With bared heads to meet me ;

"When each goodwife, o'er and o'er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down,
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.

"Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friends' falling off,

Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords
Warm and fresh and living.

Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,

O'er the rabble's laughter;
And, while hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this-that never yet
Share of truth was vainly set

In the world's wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead

Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the seer,
Must the moral pioneer

From the future borrow

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,

And, on midnight's sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!

-John Greenleaf Whittier.

Ο

UR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant field traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice of my dreaming ear melted away.
- Thomas Campbell.

WILD

LD blew the gale in Gibraltar one night,
As a soldier lay stretched in his cell;

And anon, 'mid the darkness, the moon's silver light
On his countenance dreamily fell.

Naught could she reveal, but a man true as steel,
That oft for his country had bled;

And the glance of his eye might the grim king defy,
For despair, fear, and trembling had fled.

But in rage he had struck a well-merited blow
At a tyrant who held him in scorn;
And his fate soon was sealed, for alas! honest Joe
Was to die on the following morn.

Oh! sad was the thought to a man that had fought
'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave—
To be shot through the breast at a coward's behest,
And laid low in a criminal's grave!

The night call had sounded, when Joe was aroused By a step at the door of his cell;

'Twas a comrade with whom he had often caroused, That now entered to bid him farewell. "Ah, Tom! is it you come to bid me adieu? 'Tis kind my lad! give me your hand! Nay-nay-don't get wild, man, and make me a child! I'll be soon in a happier land!"

With hand clasped in silence, Tom mournfully said, "Have you any request, Joe, to make?Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed;

Can I anything do for your sake?" "When it's over, to-morrow!" he said, filled with sorrow,

"Send this token to her whom I've sworn

All my fond love to share!"'-'twas a lock of his hair, And a prayer-book, all faded and worn.

"Here's this watch for my mother; and when you write home,"

And he dashed a bright tear from his eye"Say I died with my heart in old Devonshire, Tom, Like a man, and a soldier!-Good-bye!"

Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating appeared, And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell,

By the moon's waning light, with a husky "Goodnight!

God be with you, dear comrade!-farewell!”

Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, When the blast of a bugle resounded; And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, By the hearts of true heroes surrounded.

"Shoulder arms!" was the cry as the prisoner passed

To the right about-march!" was the word: [by: And their pale faces proved how their comrade was loved,

And by all his brave fellows adored.

Right onward they marched to the dread field of doom:
Sternly silent, they covered the ground;

Then they formed into line amid sadness and gloom,
While the prisoner looked calmly around.
Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer,
And faint tolled the solemn death-knell,
As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted hand,
Waved the long and the lasting farewell.
"Make ready!" exclaimed an imperious voice:

-"Present!"—————————struck a chill on each mind:
Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause to rejoice,
For "Hold!-hold!" cried a voice from behind.
Then wild was the joy of them all, man and boy,
As a horseman cried, "Mercy!-Forbear!"
With a thrilling "Hurrah!- -a free pardon!

-huzzah!"

And the muskets rang loud in the air.

Soon the comrades were locked in each other's embrace :

No more stood the brave soldiers dumb. [face, With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right-aboutThen away at the sound of the drum!

And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair land, Where the lovers met never to part;

And he gave her a token-true, warm, and unbroken, The gift of his own gallant heart!

-James Smith

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villagers with strange alarms.

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus-
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song;
And loud, amid the universal clamor,

'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle bell with fearful din;
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war drums made of serpents' skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village, The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage,

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing bladeAnd ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.