Yet 't is a brave one, scorning wind and weather,

And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood,

As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather,

Or forest green for England's Robin
Hood.

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's?

Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong

As earth's first kings, the Argo's gallant sailors,

Heroes in history, and gods in song.

Is beauty?-Thine has with thy youth departed;

But the love-legends of thy manhood's years,

And she who perished, young and brokenhearted,

Are But I rhyme for smiles and not for tears.

Is eloquence?-Her spell is thine that reaches

The heart, and makes the wisest head

its sport;

167

thy speeches,

The secret of their mastery, --they are short.

ocean's,

Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions,

Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow,—all save fear.

Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter,

Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in

wars;

Hatred-of missionaries and cold water; Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy

scars;

Hope that thy wrongs may be by the Great Spirit

Remembered and revenged when thou art gone;

Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne!

I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll,
And held my breath, when, floating high,
I saw our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o'er my soul.
For I was so ambitious then,
I longed to be the slave of men!

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free,
And loved it like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright
Above the storm, above the fight
Where nations strove for liberty;
And heard afar the signal-cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sailed with storm upon the deep,
I shouted to the eagle soaring;
I hung me from the rocky steep
When all but spirits were asleep,
To feel the winds about me sweep,
And hear the gallant waters roaring:
For every sound and shape of strife
To me was as the breath of life.
But I am strangely altered now:
I love no more the bugle's voice,
The rushing wave, the plunging prow,
The mountain with its clouded brow,
The thunder when the blue skies bow
And all the sons of God rejoice.

I love to dream of tears and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes!

Some are away, the dead ones dear, Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, And gave the hour to guileless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, Looked in, and thinned our little band; Some like a night-flash passed away, And some sank lingering day by day;

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| How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them, as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They 're round us, as they were of old.
We are all here.

And fykes for them are flitting;

But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
We by and by o'er-pit them a';
But death there 's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's ties are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken;